


Crazy Diamonds

by pantheon_of_discord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel of the Lord!Cas, Castiel in the Bunker, Episode: s04e02 Are You There God? It's Me Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Human Castiel, Impala Sex, M/M, Time Travel, also double the fluff, and double the angst, complete disregard for the mechanics of time travel, grandfather paradox? I don't know her, two deans plus two cas-es equals double the fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheon_of_discord/pseuds/pantheon_of_discord
Summary: A week ago, Dean was pulled out of Hell. Now, he’s apparently woken up in 2018, and the angel that a mere twenty-four hours beforehand had threatened to chuck him back into the pit is sleepily pouring himself coffee and wearing Dean’s second-favourite Zeppelin shirt. It all seems like a perfect happy ending, but with Hell’s scars still so fresh, Dean can’t imagine how he could have possibly gotten there.At the same time, the Dean who went to sleep in the bunker, right next to Cas, wakes up on Bobby’s couch in 2008. He’s instantly bombarded with questions by a Lilith-obsessed brother and a man who’s been dead for years, and must decide between keeping his finally-perfect life intact, and the lives he could save by re-writing history.Regardless of these choices, both Deans are trapped in the wrong decade, and their only way back lies with a Castiel still very much under Heaven’s thumb – one who might find the future Dean describes difficult to believe.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! 
> 
> Welcome all, thanks for stoppin' by my lil fic here.
> 
> I have many thanks for many people: To [Ene](https://ricketyjukeboxer.tumblr.com), for being beautiful and amazing, to [Bexy](https://hufflepuffdean.tumblr.com), for being wise and super-duper, to [Amber](http://amberdreams.livejournal.com), for making [the coolest arts](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/591705.html), and to Jojo and Muse for once again being the kick-ass-est mods in the biz.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Cas is hogging the blankets. Again.

“Dammit, Cas, you’re killin’ me here.”

“I told you we need a space heater in here,” Cas says, and then promptly pulls the covers around his own shoulders even tighter.

Dean retaliates by seeking out Cas’ calves with his frozen toes. The resulting yelp is intensely satisfying. “Why would I need a space heater when I’ve got my own personal oven?” he says, inching in close to Cas’ back. “Seriously, human you runs _hot_.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Rolling his eyes, but smiling despite himself, Dean leans in and plants a soft kiss to the back of Cas’ neck. “Tomorrow you’re helpin’ me sort through that last storage room. As payment for grand blanket larceny.”

Cas nods sleepily. “I don’t think that’s a real crime.”

“Tell that to my hypothermia.”

“You’re being rather dramatic,” Cas mumbles. He’s practically asleep already.

Dean thinks he manages a reply – undoubtedly devastating and incredibly witty – before passing out, but the next thing he knows he’s jammed up uncomfortably against Cas’ back, and absolutely freezing again.

He’s right up against the edge of the bed, with Cas encroaching onto his side more flagrantly than normal. Somehow all the blankets have bunched themselves up at Dean’s feet, and his arms are a tangled knot against his shivering chest.

Clenching his eyes against the glaring daylight, he manages to extract one arm to shove at Cas’ back. “‘M fallin’ off here, Cas,” he mumbles, then frowns. It doesn’t feel like Cas – it’s more like a wall of pillows. “Wha’didjudo to the bed?”

“Who’re you dreaming about?”

Dean furrows his brow, then slowly opens one very confused eye to find Sam at eye level, looking amused.

“Sam. Whadder you doin’ in here?”

“Uh, sleeping,” Sam says. “Although not as well as you, evidently. C’mon, Bobby’s gonna make eggs.”

“Mmhmm.” Dean yawns, readying himself to sit up, then all of a sudden Sam’s words settle into his brain and both eyes shoot wide open.

Instead of the brick-lined wall of his bedroom, he’s staring over Sam’s head at very ugly and very familiar floral wallpaper. There’s real daylight streaming into the room from real windows, and the pressure against his back isn’t Cas, but Bobby’s old red couch.

Dean sits up immediately, planting his bare feet on worn hardwood and looking around the room rapidly. Everything looks exactly as it used to – the walls, the furniture, the shelves lined with dusty books. God, it even smells the same – like mildew and woodsmoke and burnt coffee.

He’s in Bobby’s house. Bobby’s house that burned down more than seven years ago.

“What the hell.” This is the most mundane and yet freakishly vivid dream he’s ever had.

“What’s your problem,” Sam asks, absorbed with tying up his boots.

Blinking, Dean looks down from the couch to focus on his brother. While the house looks just as Dean remembers, Sam looks. . . different. It’s hard to tell sitting down, but he’s maybe a bit slighter in the shoulders. And his hair –

“Look at me a sec,” Dean says.

Sam obliges, tilting his head up to Dean with a puzzled expression, and the changes become even more obvious. There are fewer lines along his face; he’s a bit softer somehow, and his hair is definitely shorter. However, before Dean can open his mouth to comment, Sam cuts him off.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you? You look, I dunno, sick or something.”

Taken aback, Dean stands from the sofa and stumbles over to the mirror on the wall, but then frowns. Other than needing a shave, he looks fine. Normal.

He turns back around to find Sam looking him up and down, his expression growing more worried by the second. “Did you put on weight?”

“Hey!” Dean says.

But Sam shakes his head. “I mean since last night. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Me?” Dean moves his hands awkwardly to his stomach, suddenly very conscious of the hint of beer belly he’s been sporting the last couple months. “What about you? Why does dream-you suddenly look like an MTV reject?”

Sam stares at him for a second. “ _What_?”

Just as Dean opens his mouth to reply, the kitchen door creaks open behind him, followed by a voice that makes Dean’s heart stutter.

“If you boys are gonna stay another night, you’re gonna have to get your asses to the store. You’re eatin’ me outta house and home.”

Hardly daring to believe it, Dean rotates slowly in place until his eyes land on a heart-wrenchingly familiar, plaid-covered back. Bobby Singer is standing at the kitchen sink, unloading a large handful of eggs onto the counter.

“Bobby?” Dean asks, voice cracking.

“I mean it. You animals are limited to two slices of bacon. Between ya.”

“Bobby, hold up. Something’s wrong with Dean,” Sam says.

“What was your first clue?” Bobby asks, but turns around to look at them. His eyes fall on Dean and he frowns. “Sam’s right. What piece of roadkill crawled onto your face and died?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean says again, but his confusion is way too strong to be overpowered by indignation right now. Seeing Bobby again, in his. . . well, in his _prime_ isn’t the right word. But he’s alive and he’s standing in his kitchen.

Shaking his head, Dean reaches across himself and delivers a savage pinch to the meat of his arm. When nothing happens, he does it again, and again, muttering little “ _ow’s_ ” as he goes.

Finally, Sam steps forward and pulls his hand away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to wake up,” Dean says, “because this is obviously some kinda messed up dream.”

While Sam and Bobby exchange a bewildered look, Dean resumes pinching himself.

“Dean, you’re not dreaming. You’re awake. We’re all awake,” Sam says, suddenly sounding rather wary.

“Oh really,” Dean snaps, abandoning the pinching experiment. “Well if we’re all awake, then tell me how I went to sleep in my own bed last night, then woke up in _Bobby’s house_ –” he throws out a wild arm “– and _Bobby’s_ here.”

“Where the hell else would I be?” Bobby asks.

“And what do you mean ‘your own bed?’” Sam says.

Dean blinks. “I mean _my bed_. In the bunker.”

Now Sam looks completely lost. “The what?”

Panic has started to creep up Dean’s spine. “What d’you mean ‘the what,’ the _bunker_. You know, the –” he trails off, waving his hands randomly.

Bobby shakes his head. “Boy, this is not the time for you to be having a conniption. We got seals to research.”

“What do you –” He stops, an alarming explanation suddenly crossing his mind. “Did you say _seals_?”

“Yeah, Dean, seals,” Sam says, still talking like Dean’s walked off the deep end. “Sixty-six of them. The ones Castiel told you about.”

“Castiel,” Dean repeats. “Seals.” Bobby and Sam keep staring at him, but Dean starts looking around the room, searching out a newspaper. “You said _Castiel_.”

Sam nods, very slowly. “Yes. The angel.”

Dean nods too, but more to himself. “Castiel. Not _Cas_.”

“What?”

“What day is it?” Dean asks, moving away from the others now to dig around on Bobby’s desk.

“Friday?” Sam says.

Dean has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “The _date_ , Sam.”

Sam just looks at Bobby, bewildered.

“September 26th,” Bobby supplies.

Finally, Dean’s eyes fall on a newspaper, buried under a worn, leather-backed book, and he nods grimly. “2008.”

 

 

Dean’s getting old, there’s no other explanation. His back is aching, his hip is digging into something hard and cold, and there’s a serious kink in his neck. Bobby’s couch has always been a torture rack, but this is ridiculous.

Though he’s still groggy, Dean grimaces to himself. Maybe it’s a bit too soon for comparisons like that.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, only to squint them again. He’s not on Bobby’s couch at all – he’s on a completely unfamiliar tile floor, staring down a long, brick-lined hallway.

Instinct and adrenaline send him rocketing up, landing silently on socked feet and darting his eyes up and down the empty hall. There are no windows, and the air is still and cool. Underground, maybe? There’s no way to tell. He has no memory of coming here. Was he knocked out? His head isn’t throbbing, and he doesn’t feel drugged or like he’s shaking off a spell.

He reaches behind himself, but there’s no gun tucked into his waistband or pocketknife in his jeans. Wherever he is now, he’s arrived just as he was when he curled up to sleep in Bobby’s living room. His heart is pounding. He’s weaponless, and therefore defenseless.

For a moment he weighs his options, then very hesitantly calls out. “Hello?”

The only sound to follow is the quiet echo of his own voice, bouncing back against the stone.

Alone then. Maybe. Who knows how big this place is.

Doorways line the hall every few feet. Dean cracks one open as quietly as he can, letting out a breath of relief when the hinges don’t squeak. It seems to be a small storage room, with shelves and boxes lining the walls. Before he can explore more thoroughly, however, he hears what he thinks is the distant swing of another door opening.

Heart rate picking up again, he backs out of the room as quietly as he can, then starts moving down the hall. There are more doors, behind any of which there could be a means to arm himself. Or, he reasons, a swarm of demons, or vamps, or any other number of things that could’ve brought him here. So he keeps moving.

After a minute he comes to a fork, and at the end of one hall there’s light spilling from an open doorway. It’s as close to a lead as he’s come across, so he creeps up to the door as silently as he can, bracing his back against the wall. He strains to listen, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise coming from inside. After taking a few slow breaths, he carefully peers around the corner.

To his astonishment, it’s a kitchen.

Frowning, he moves away from the wall and steps into the room, wide eyes traveling around to the large, industrial oven, the pantry shelves stocked with food, and the dishes drying on a rack by the sink. The big appliances are old – pre-war, maybe – but the coffeemaker at the opposite end of the room is new.

New and full, in fact. The scent wafts through the air, and over the slight hum of the refrigerator, Dean can hear little ticks from the hot plate. Someone lives here, and they’ve been in this room in the last twenty minutes.

Dean’s eyes find a butcher block full of kitchen knives, but before he can grab one, he hears soft footsteps coming toward a second doorway on the far side of the room.

There’s no time to hide or dive for the butcher block, so Dean just stands there, frozen, as a man comes yawning into the room, barely sparing him a glance before shuffling over to the coffeemaker.

“You were supposed to be bringing me a cup,” the man says, and Dean’s jaw hits the floor.

If it weren’t for the low, gravely voice, Dean wouldn’t have recognized him. Gone is the too-big suit and the flasher coat, replaced by dark boxers and an old robe and a ratty –

“Is that my _shirt_?”

Dean has no idea why _that’s_ the detail in this bizarro situation he’s latched onto, but it can’t be denied. There’s a self-professed _angel of the lord_ , who a mere twenty-four hours beforehand had threatened to chuck Dean back to Hell, sleepily pouring himself coffee and wearing Dean’s second-favourite Zeppelin shirt.

“Wha – what the _hell_ ’s goin’ on here?”

“It’s comfortable,” Castiel says, inhaling deeply before taking a long sip of the coffee. “I thought you liked it when I wore your clothes.”

If possible, that throws Dean even more. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Castiel finally looks Dean in the face, and almost instantly his confused frown turns to a look of unmistakeable shock. “You’re. . . you’re not right.”

That’s a bit rich. “ _I’m_ not right?” Dean says indignantly, alarm bells still ringing in his head. “What the hell did you do to me? Where am I?”

Castiel’s eyes are still wide and his mouth drops into an O as he gives Dean a long look, head to toe. After a moment his eyes come to rest on Dean’s chest. “That necklace.”

Dean follows his gaze to the amulet hanging around his neck. “What about it?” he asks. “And again – _where the hell am I_?”

Finally, Castiel snaps his mouth closed and looks up again to meet Dean’s eyes. There’s a completely foreign expression on his face. Dean didn’t think it was possible, but he looks nervous.

Without breaking eye contact, Castiel angles his head back towards the side door and calls out “Sam?”

Adrenaline spikes through Dean again instantly, only this time it’s not panic, it’s fear and anger. “What the hell did you do to my brother?” he says, hands forming fists at his sides. A few quick steps and he can make it to the knife block.

Castiel raises his hands, palms forward. “Stay calm, Dean.” He takes a step closer, and on instinct, Dean takes one back, his own fists coming up.

Something flashes across Castiel’s face. Bizarrely, he looks _hurt_ , but then an instant later he’s back to that same pacifying expression. “You’re in no danger, Dean, I promise you that.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna trust you,” Dean says, eyes darting over to the butcher block again. “I don’t even –”

Dean is cut off by more footsteps from the side door, and Dean’s heart leaps in relief as Sam steps down into the room.

“What’s up,” he says, like everything’s normal, like it’s perfectly acceptable to start your mornings being served coffee by a monster wearing a bathrobe.

Dean swallows, trailing eyes over his brother. Only it doesn’t exactly look like his brother. His face is darker somehow, and his hair is longer than Dean’s ever seen it. “Sammy, get away from him,” Dean says. “And tell me what the hell’s goin’ on. And why you look. . . like that.”

But Sam doesn’t move away, instead he only looks confused, eyes sliding back and forth between Dean and Castiel. “What are you talking about? Cas, what’s goin’ on?”

 _Cas._ It just rolls off his tongue, easy as anything. They’ve never even met and already Sam’s giving him a pet name.

Shaking his head, Castiel finally breaks his silence. “Look at him, Sam.”

Now uncomfortably pinned under twin, scrutinizing stares, Dean starts to get even more nervous.

After a moment Sam extends a finger. “When did you start wearing that again?”

None of this is making any sense. “What is with the damn fascination about my necklace?”

“You. . .” Sam is now studying his face intently, his eyes growing wider. “You’re _younger_?” He turns back to Castiel. “Is this a witch thing again?”

“ _What_?”

But Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not a spell,” he says. “He’s the wrong Dean.”

“The hell I am,” Dean snaps back, not even properly understanding what he means by it.

“It’s not just his memory, you think?” Sam says.

Castiel gestures to him. “Look at him. Look at his face.”

“Nothing’s _fucking_ wrong with my face.”

“He knows me,” Castiel says, as though Dean hadn’t even opened his mouth. “But he’s wearing the necklace.”

Sam nods slowly, seeming to understand something, but Dean is even more confused, not to mention pissed off.

“Hey, _flyboy_ , wanna stop talking about me like I’m not here?”

They both turn to look at him fully, and Sam swallows. “He doesn’t trust you,” he says to Castiel, who shakes his head. “So, ten, d’you think?”

“Almost exactly, I’d say.” Castiel nods, and he looks strangely devastated.

Dean’s just about had it. “Son of a _bitch_ , ten _what_?”

Sam throws one last glance at Castiel, who merely shrugs in a defeated kind of way. “Years, Dean.”

That explains. . . exactly _nothing_. “I swear to god, if somebody doesn’t start explaining what the _hell_ is –”

“I don’t know how, Dean, but somehow you have come roughly ten years forward in time,” Castiel says.

The kitchen falls dead silent, save for the heart in Dean’s chest, which now seems to be thumping so loud he's sure they can hear it.

No. That’s _bullshit_. This is some angel trick, or maybe a djinn, or some other fucked up kind of spell because there is _no fucking way_.

“Fuck off,” Dean says, looking to Sam for a trace of sanity. Annoyingly, Sam is nodding – _agreeing_ with this monster spouting bullshit. “There’s no such thing as time travel.”

Sam’s eyes widen even more, and he looks back at Castiel. “It’s even before you sent him back to Lawrence,” he says, like that means something. “He _really_ doesn’t trust you.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, and again Dean feels a flicker of irritation.

“What’d I say about talking about me like I’m not here?” he says, but it comes out sounding rather weak.

Castiel grimaces and lets out a breath through his nose, then takes a few steps forward. Dean’s still wary, but this time, he holds his ground. Castiel looks encouraged. “Dean, you’re going to find this very difficult to believe. You don’t trust me yet, but you can trust your brother.”

Dean glances over to find Sam nodding reassuringly. He swallows, then looks at Castiel again.

“Right now, it’s 2018. This place, this bunker, it’s your home. And you’re safe here.”

No, no, _nope_ , not happening. No way.

“It’s true, Dean,” Sam says, moving in closer too. He takes a moment, struggling to find his words. “I know how. . . unlikely that seems. I mean you, god –” he stops short, fighting to swallow “– you just got outta Hell.”

Something squirms in Dean’s stomach. His eyes dart over to the door, calculating his escape.

Sam seems to sense his anxiety. “A lot can happen in ten years, Dean. And I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, from where you are, but we. . .” Strangely, he throws a half smile to Castiel. “We make it out okay.”

Without noticing it, Dean’s been shaking his head. “ _We_ , huh? If this is all real or whatever, then explain to me how _we_ somehow seems to include the _thing_ that wants to pitch me back south of the border.”

That hurt expression flits across Castiel’s face again. “Like Sam said, a lot can happen in ten years.”

“Can it,” Dean says acidly. “Like what. DeLoreans? Maybe a TARDIS? If you’re telling the truth, then how did I get here, huh?”

At that, Sam cracks a bit of a smile. “You watched Doctor Who?”

“Shut up,” Dean says, blushing.

All of a sudden Castiel reaches out a hand to Sam’s arm. “Sam, he’s right. How did he get here?”

Sam frowns at him, then faces Dean again. “And where’s _our_ Dean?”

 

 

“Slow down, boy, you’re not makin’ a lick of sense.”

Dean is rifling through books in a blind panic, even though he knows there’s nothing here to help him. Time travel is a bit beyond Bobby’s library. “Makes perfect sense, Bobby. I somehow got Marty McFlyed a decade, and now I need to get back to the future.”

He glances up, only to find both Bobby and Sam looking at him like he’s completely lost his mind.

“I’m not crazy, okay? In fact, I think I’m handling this situation _pretty damn well_ , wouldn’t you say?” Dean says, completely disregarding the mounting anxiety in his chest.

Sam takes a hesitant step forward. “Dean, what you’re saying – look, there’s gotta be an explanation. A sane one.”

Dean throws out his arms wide. “Look at me! You said it yourself, I don’t look like I’m supposed to, do I?” He raises an eyebrow at Bobby. “I mean, that roadkill thing – y’know, _harsh_ – but you said it. Don’t I look ten years older?”

“And then some,” Bobby says.

“Alright, pump the breaks, gramps.”

Sam cuts in before Bobby can do more than narrow his eyes. “Okay, so maybe it’s some kind of aging spell. But come on, Dean, time travel just isn’t possible, okay?”

“There’s where you’re wrong, Sammy. In my time – or well, you know, whatever – you and me’ve been down this road a few times.”

“‘This road,’” Sam repeats. “You and me, we’ve time traveled. Several times. How?”

Shrugging, Dean drops the text he’s been skimming in favour of a box of files on Bobby’s desk. “Couple different ways. There’s this one spell. Plus the odd god here or there. And,” he abandons the box and steps around the front of the desk, “angels can do it. That’s where I’m starting.”

Sam stares at him. “What are you doing?”

Ignoring him, Dean rolls his shoulders and gestures for the two of them to back up. “Damn, it’s been years since I’ve done this.”

With Bobby and Sam looking on, Dean closes his eyes and takes a breath.

“I pray to Castiel. It’s Dean Winchester calling, in need of a little angelic roadside assistance.”

He listens, but there’s no tell-tale flutter of wings, no shift in the air that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Hello, calling Castiel. Dean Winchester here, Righteous Man. Got your ears on today?”

“Uh, Dean?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says, opening one eye.

“What are you doing?”

The eye drops closed again. “Praying, Sam, what’s it look like.”

“Like you were dropped on your head as a child,” Bobby says.

“Hello! Breaker breaker, requesting flight assistance,” Dean says, a little louder now. “No? Okay, let’s see. . . how about Uriel, huh? Uriel, my man, my _junkless_ friend, you’ve gotta be dying to get rid of me, huh? No?”

There’s still just silence, so Dean furrows his brow, concentrating. “Zachariah! Yeah, you’ve pulled this kinda shtick before, how you doin,’ pal? You playin’ another round of This is Your Life? What about. . . Balthazar! Balthy, buddy, it’s been ages. You like fuckin’ around with time, was this you?”

“Dean, stop it,” Sam says.

Through his panic, Dean feels an old, familiar jolt of anger. “C’mon, Cas, now’s not the time to be ignoring me.” Finally, Dean peels both eyes open. After a cursory glance around the room, he glares up at the ceiling. “This was a lot _easier_ when you had a damn _phone_.”

His shoulders fall into a slump, and one hand comes up to rub at his temples. “Come to think of it, that never seemed to make much of a difference either.”

There’s silence for a good long while, until Sam says, “That’s what you call ‘praying?’”

Just as Dean huffs a humourless laugh, he feels the air around them crackle.

“What are you doing here?”

Christ. Dean had forgotten just how much Cas always loved an entrance.

His head whips up as Bobby and Sam back away in alarm, but Dean’s eyes instantly find Cas, framed in the library doorway.

He looks exactly the same as he had last night, except totally different. He’s still so new to that body, still so stiff and small in his oversized clothes. His hair is wilder than it’s been in a long time, and even through his suspicious glare, his eyes are cold and detached.

“Cas. Thank god,” Dean says.

Even as Cas’ shoulders tense up visibly at the name, Dean feels himself relax. He’ll be back home in no time.

“What are you _doing_ here,” Cas repeats, looking Dean up and down with an increasingly appalled expression. “You don’t belong in this time.”

“See,” Dean can’t help but say, but Sam and Bobby both just stand with their mouths hanging open. “And yes, you’re right there, pal. So if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate you putting me back where I’m supposed to be.”

If possible, Cas narrows his eyes even further, examining every inch of him. Dean had forgotten how uncomfortable that could be. “How did you get here?”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t care. Or at least, don’t care right now. Let’s just hop on the Angel Express back to 2018, probably figure out where 2008 me ended up, and we’ll call it just another wacky day.”

Cas is barely listening. “We must have done this for a reason,” he says, then pins Dean with his gaze. “Were you given a mission by Heaven?”

A snort forces his way out of Dean’s nose before he can rein it in. “Cas, buddy, Heaven hasn’t been giving me missions for a long-ass time.”

Cas’ eyes grow wide with shock, and Dean instantly regrets his words.

“Uh, I mean. Crap. I probably shouldn’t say anything like that. We are one bad Kutcher movie away from disaster.”

Cas just stares, so Dean turns to Sam. “Butterfly Effect, right? Probably a good idea to keep future stuff under the lid?”

“Uh,” Sam says.

Dean frowns. “That movie’s come out already, right?”

“Uh.”

“Okay, you’re not helpful,” Dean says, then turns back to Cas. “Listen, Cas, we both know I don’t know jack about paradoxes or whatever. But it’s probably best for, y’know, the universe, if I’m back where I’m supposed to be. Both of me. So, let’s get crackin,’ huh? We can sort out the how and why later.”

After a pause, Cas nods. “You’re from the future. Ten years.”

Dean blinks. “Wow, Cas, way to keep up.”

“So you know things,” Cas says, slowly, in realization, and suddenly Dean feels a jolt of panic in his gut. “You know how things turn out. The war. And Lucifer.”

“Whoa, hey, Cas –”

“You survive, evidently,” Cas says carelessly, and illogically, Dean can’t help feeling a sting of hurt. “That’s rather unexpected. And myself too.”

“Cas, what was I _just_ saying about –”

“And you keep calling me that.” Cas takes a step forward. He sounds distinctly annoyed now. “You seem rather. . . familiar with me.”

Again, Dean can’t contain his snort, but this time he remembers to keep his mouth shut. “Yeah, it’s. . . it’s been kind of a ride, the last ten years.”

Cas narrows his eyes again, but doesn’t speak.

Dean sighs. “Look. If I knew nothing would go wrong, I’d tell you everything. Although I doubt you’d believe most of it. But I’m pretty sure _my_ you would be telling me not to upset the cosmic whatevers.”

“ _Your_ me.” Cas tilts his head dangerously.

“Yeah, y’know,” Dean says quickly, “the you from my time. Who I would like to get back to. And _my_ Sam, and –” he pauses, and with a pang, his eyes flick to Bobby. “And _my_ family.”

There’s an agonizingly long silence as Cas just stares, until finally he speaks. “No.”

Dean’s heart drops out. “What d’you mean, ‘no’?”

“I cannot utilize time travel whenever I feel like it,” Cas says. “My superiors were undoubtedly responsible for this. They will decide the appropriate course of action.”

Oh hell no. _Superiors_ means Zachariah, or maybe Michael himself. “Cas, man, you can’t bring them in on this. If you wanted to pick my brain, they’re _definitely_ gonna. And they’ll probably be literal about it.”

“That is their right,” Cas says, supremely uncaring. “I’ll be in touch,” he adds, and then with a heavy rustle of wingbeats, he’s gone.

“God _damnit_ , Cas!” Dean calls out after him. Predictably, he’s left in silence.

Sighing heavily, he turns to face Bobby and Sam’s stunned expressions.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll open up the floor to questions.”

 

 

Sam is leading the way down the hall, throwing concerned glances over his shoulder that make Dean want to punch him. Castiel is worse though, trailing behind a few paces and just, y’know, _breathing_. And also being half-naked, with boxer shorts that leave almost nothing to the imagination, clinging to surprisingly thick thighs – and where the fuck did _that_ thought come from –

“Do you _mind_ ,” Dean snaps. He’s feeling a bit edgy.

Castiel raises his eyebrows in surprise. “What?”

“You’re just,” Dean says, shoulders twitching, “I don’t like you behind me, okay? You’re creepin’ me out.”

There’s that face again, like Dean’s just kicked his fucking puppy or something.

“Dean, hey, take it easy,” Sam says over his shoulder. “Now, does any of this look familiar?”

Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Castiel, Dean glares around at the walls. They’re in a hallway, one that looks identical to every other hallway they’ve walked through. “Yes, Sam, it looks familiar – it all looks familiar, it’s a fucking hallway. You can’t expect me to believe we fucking _live_ here.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, come on.”

“I don’t know, okay! I woke up on the damn floor. There was a room close by, just storage, I guess.”

“As you might imagine, that doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Castiel says. Dean rounds on him, eyes narrowed threateningly, but Castiel pushes on. “Do you remember what was in the room?”

“I dunno, boxes. I didn’t open any of ‘em though.” Dean peers past Sam, concentrating. “I think that junction looks familiar. Y’know, _more_ familiar.”

Sam follows his gaze, then walks the few paces up to the corner. Tilting his head, he glances down one hall, then turns back to Castiel. “Weren’t you and Dean going through some of the artifact storage earlier?”

Castiel nods. “Well, Dean was. I was going to start helping him today.”

Hearing the two of them talk about him, but not _him_ , is seriously unnerving. Shivering, Dean takes the lead now, walking past Sam and down the hall until he finds what he thinks is the right spot. “Here,” he says, gesturing to a stretch of the floor. “I think this is it.”

Castiel comes up beside him, before moving ahead down the hall, head cocked.

After a moment of silence, Dean glances back at Sam, who is watching Castiel intently. “What d’you think,” Sam says. “Any leftover spidey senses tingling?”

Dean frowns at the phrase, but Castiel just shakes his head.

“No. Nothing I can sense, anyway.”

“Leftover spidey senses, what’s that mean,” Dean asks.

Castiel glances over. “It’s from a comic book,” he says. “It’s called Spiderman.”

Jesus Christ.

Dean looks at Sam, who seems to be trying and failing to fight back a grin, before glaring at Castiel. “I know what ‘spidey sense’ means, genius. What’s the _leftover_ part about?”

At that, Castiel looks cagey. He turns to Sam for help, only now Sam seems hesitant too.

“Yeah, uh, I dunno, Dean. I don’t know how much we should tell you, y’know? Time travel stuff is. . . it’s complicated.”

Dean huffs. “Yeah, that’s assuming I’m buying this whole time travel thing. Which, y’know, I’m _not_.”

“Well then,” Castiel says, and strides forward along the hall. “Let’s see if we can prove it to you. Now, which store room did you look in?”

After a long, skeptical glare, Dean points to a door.

Castiel nods, and opens it, stepping inside and flicking on the old light switch. “If we find out how you got here, we can send you back.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Dean says, and follows him inside.

“Before you woke up in the hall,” Sam says, filing in after and crossing to a set of shelves on the far wall, “what were you doing? What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Going to sleep,” Dean says. “Everything was normal.”

Castiel is moving slowly around the room, head tilted like he’s listening for something. “Where were you?”

“Bobby’s. We’d spent all day researching the damn Apocalypse.”

Instantly, Castiel and Sam both stiffen, then turn to face each other with unnervingly significant expressions.

“ _What_?” Dean says. “What are those goddamn looks for?”

After another moment, Castiel looks over to him, eyes wide. “So, the last time you saw me was –”

“The kitchen. When you told me you would throw me back into Hell if I didn’t show you respect.”

Rather satisfyingly, Castiel grimaces. “Right. That was. . . a long time ago.”

“For you maybe,” Dean snaps. “For me it was yesterday. So how about you cut me some damn slack.”

There’s a tense pause, then Castiel nods. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” Dean says.

Sam clears his throat uncomfortably. “Anyway. So, Dean – our Dean – was sorting through these rooms the last couple days. Right?”

Castiel nods.

“So maybe he touched something he shouldn’t have.”

“That sounds like him,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, I’m right here. But y’know. . .” Dean falters as Sam and Castiel both give him a _look_. “You’re probably right.”

Satisfied, Sam nods. “Okay. So we start looking. Anything that stands out.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, pulling open a box immediately. “Be careful what you touch,” he adds.

Dean looks at the two of them for a moment, working in tandem. It’s so easy, so natural – his brother, and the thing that pulled him out of Hell, friends. It’s beyond weird.

But with no better options, he pushes aside his skepticism and opens a box. It’s filled with. . . old crap. Little wooden idols and amulets and metal bowls, each of them with a yellowed identifying card attached.

“What is this place? A museum?”

Sam looks over, hesitant again. “Well. . .”

“Oh, come on.” This is getting seriously irritating.

Sam seems to weigh his options, then finally he shrugs. “It’s the bunker. It was a headquarters for this. . . organization.”

“An organization of what? Hunters?”

“Close,” Sam says, reaching for another box. “Like hunters, but less actual, y’know, hunting. They kept all the lore and did research on monsters and demons and stuff, but didn’t do any of the field work themselves.”

“Oh, so nerds.” Dean smirks. “Your people.”

“Men of Letters,” Sam says, and turns back to his box.

Dean snorts. “Dumb name.”

They work in silence for a few minutes, all three of them sorting through box after box filled with junk, until a thought occurs to Dean and he looks over at Castiel.

“Hang on, can’t you just, y’know, _poof_ , find whatever it is we’re looking for? You can burst light bulbs and take a knife to the heart. You telling me Mister Magic Angel Boy can’t x-ray this room in two seconds?”

The silence that falls is distinctly uncomfortable. Castiel stops rifling around in a box, and Dean can tell that Sam is frozen too.

Slowly, Castiel stands up straight, then turns to look him steadily in the eye. “No, I can’t.”

“Well why the hell not?” Dean says.

There’s a long pause, then Castiel turns back to his box, shoulders slumped. “It’s complicated.”

“What’s that supposed to –”

“Uh, hey, got something,” Sam cuts in. In his hands is a strange, curved piece of something, partially wrapped in white cloth. He pulls it back to reveal something black, about the size of a dinner plate. “See this, it’s fresh.” Carefully, Sam rubs the white cloth against the curve, and it comes away black. It’s then Dean realizes the thing isn’t painted, it’s charred.

“What is that?” Dean says, moving across the room. “Is that a bow?”

“No,” Castiel says, and his voice is grim. “It’s a harp.” He steps forward too and reaches across to take it. “An. . . angelic harp. And I’d say it’s most likely what brought you here, Dean.”

Dean almost laughs. “An _angelic_ harp. Seriously. You guys have _harps_.”

“Not all,” Castiel says. “Just one. Netzach.”

“What the hell kinda name is that?”

Castiel throws him a look. “He’s the angel of eternity. And he used this,” he says, setting the harp down on a stack of boxes, “to see through time.”

When did Dean’s life get so fucking ridiculous? “An angel uses a harp to see through time. Naturally. What the hell are you guys smoking up there?”

“So,” Sam cuts in again, “he saw through time. But he didn’t use it to travel, right? He had his wings.”

“Right,” Castiel says. “I don’t know how this could have pulled Dean forward on its own. And sent our Dean back, if that’s indeed what happened.”

They’re ignoring him again.

Sam reaches out for the tag. “Well, if the Men of Letters got a hold of it, maybe they did something.” He squints down at the label. “There’s a file number here – with any luck there’s some notes lying around.”

“Maybe,” Castiel says. “But that doesn’t necessarily solve our problem.” He gestures to the harp, and suddenly Dean feels a wave of uneasiness again.

After a pause, Sam nods, and pokes at the blackened wood. “I’m guessing it’s not supposed to look like this.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, it looks like it’s burnt out. Whatever happened, I don’t think it’ll work again.”

A knot twists in Dean’s stomach. “What does that mean?”

They finally look up at him again, and then exchange uncomfortable glances.

“You don’t think it’ll work again. So how do I get back?” Dean says, trying hard to keep the panic from his voice.

“Hey, Dean, we’ll figure it out.” Sam’s got his reassuring voice on, but it’s not helping, not remotely.

“Hang on, _wait_.” Dean points a finger at Castiel’s chest. “You said something about some time when _he_ ‘sent me back to Lawrence.’” Sam drops his gaze guiltily. “And then you said that this Nutsack guy used his wings to travel in time.”

Swallowing, Sam looks over at Castiel, then back to Dean. “Yeah.”

Dean nods. “So, angels can time travel.” He meets Castiel’s eye. “ _Right_?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, quiet but resolute. “Angels can.”

“Great, then what the hell are we doing poking around in some goddamn dust factory. Who cares how I got here, just send me back,” Dean says. For some reason, his heart is pounding again.

Castiel doesn’t look away. “I can’t.”

There’s empty silence afterwards. “Why not,” Dean finally says, teeth gritted.

A muscle in Castiel’s jaw twitches. “Like I said before, it’s complicated.”

“What’s the matter,” Dean spits, “you lose your fancy God privileges?”

Instantly, Dean knows that was the wrong thing to say, as cold, bitter anger flashes across Castiel’s face. For the first time, Dean recognizes the angel that stared him down in Bobby’s kitchen, and he feels himself shrinking.

Instead of responding, however, Castiel just walks right past him and out the door.

“Hey, I’m _talking_ to you.”

“Dean, shut up, give him a break,” Sam says.

Dean whirls around, hackles raised. “Are you _kidding_ me? You’re defending this guy, who won’t take me out of bizarro world and back home because it’s _complicated_? What the hell’s happened to you?”

Sam takes a moment to bite back a retort, before closing his eyes and inhaling through his nose. “A lot, Dean. A lot has happened, more than you can imagine.” He takes another breath and opens his eyes again. “I know it’s hard for you to accept it right now, but look, I trust Cas with my life, and so do you. I mean, our you. More than that – we’re family.”

Something like revulsion twists around in Dean’s stomach. “Did we somehow change what that word meant in the last decade?” he says coldly.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says. “We did.”

 

 

“You want the tears of a _what_?”

Both Sam and Bobby are hovering on the edge of the kitchen, out of the danger zone. Between the open cupboards and emptied drawers, Dean’s making kind of a mess. “A dragon, Bobby. Tears of a dragon.” Bobby’s usually got the right stuff in stock, but unfortunately he’s got nothing on the bunker.

“Sure, I’ve got some upstairs. Next to my unicorn horn. And the Lindbergh baby.”

Dean fights an eye roll. “Okay. What about some of the Sands of Time?”

“Left it in my other pants.”

“Okay, fine.” Dean turns around and plants his knuckles on the dining room table. “No problem. Don’t have the stuff, can’t do the spell, but – no problem. Everything’s fine.” He blows out a hard breath. And then kicks a chair.

Bobby comes up behind him, dropping a reassuring pat onto the back of Dean’s shoulder. “Alright, take it easy. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks. “Bobby, without this spell, Cas is the only way back I can see.”

“Maybe. But we can still do some diggin’. I’ve got a couple books I can look through, stuff I used to think was bullcrap. But maybe not.” He pats Dean’s back one more time, then leaves the room. A moment later Dean hears the front door open and close, and a car engine start.

Blowing out another breath, Dean stands up straight and stares at the ceiling. “C’mon, Cas. I need to get home, man. Please, you know I don’t belong here.” He drops his head again, only to find Sam leaning against the doorframe, his eyes pointed somewhere around Dean’s middle. “You’re quiet.”

“What is that?” Sam says abruptly.

Dean follows his gaze, looking down at his stomach self-consciously. “What’s what?”

“No, there, on your hand. Is that –”

Panicked, Dean whips his hands behind his back in what he’s sure is a totally nonchalant way. “No.”

Sam takes a few steps forward, eyes coming up to meet Dean’s in astonishment. “Are you wearing a _wedding ring_?”

“Uh.”

“Dean. Are you married?”

Dean pulls back a gulp and tries to steady his breathing. The Big Conversation was a lot easier the first time around, when Sam had years of increasingly blatant evidence behind him. “Maybe.”

Sam’s eyes are wide with questions. Slowly, hesitantly, Dean brings his hands around front again, and his right hand instantly moves over to fiddle with the plain silver ring.

“Yeah. Okay, yeah. I am.”

“Wow.” Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, jeez, Dean. Who’d’ve thought, y’know?”

“Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.”

“I mean, congratulations, man.” He’s smiling now, almost beaming, and the tension starts to ease from Dean’s stomach. “Was I there?”

Dean gives him a look. “You think I’d pick a different best man?”

Sam’s really beaming now. “Yeah, damn straight.” He reaches up and slaps Dean on the arm, and then stops. “Hey, who is she? Have we met her yet?”

Instantly, the knot in his stomach is back, and Dean takes a step away, dropping his eyes. “Uh, yeah, I dunno Sam, I think this is getting into that future stuff territory.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “Does that mean she _is_ somebody we know? Who?”

“Look Sam, just – just drop it, okay?”

“Yeah, hey, alright.” Sam’s hands come up in surrender. “Sorry, I’m just, y’know, it’s a lot.”

 _She. Her_. Every time, there’s a twinge in Dean’s gut. It’s been a long time since he’s had to live the lie. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, I get it,” Dean says, walking over to the couch. He drops down and rests his elbows on his knees, his fingers once again fiddling with the ring. He’s only had it on a few months.

God, he needs to get home.

After a moment, Sam sits down beside him. “We’ll get you back, Dean. Promise.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam smiles, and then a moment later he looks away, eyes going a bit shifty.

Dean knows a build-up when he sees one. “What?”

“I just –” Sam pauses, choosing his words. “I know you don’t wanna tell us everything. That’s fine, that makes sense and everything.”

“But?” Dean says, readying himself for another shutdown.

“I just need to know – Dean, do I get her?”

Dean furrows his brow. “Get who?”

Sam stares back at him. “What d’you mean ‘who?’ _Lilith_ , Dean. Who else?”

The name hits Dean like a sack of bricks, and his heart sinks all the way down into the couch cushions. “Lilith.” He brings a hand up to his temples. “Jeez, Lilith, right.”

“Yes, Lilith.” Sam sounds strangely pissed. “What, did you forget about the demon that sent you to Hell?”

“It’s been a long ten years, Sam,” Dean says. “And some things, we’re better off not remembering.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The couch bounces as Sam stands. “What the hell happened? What’s _gonna_ happen?”

Dean looks away. “I’m not sayin,’ Sam, no way. That’s too big. That’s _cosmic_ big. We can’t mess with how that went down.”

“Are you _kidding_ me, Dean?” Sam hisses. “This is Lilith, here. The only name I’ve lived and breathed for the last year.”

“Really?” Dean stands up too, shoulders squaring. “If I remember right, it’s one of _two_ names.”

Sam frowns, puzzled. “What’re you talking about?”

Dean gives him a look. “What, did you think I’d never find out about your little summer romance?”

“You –” Sam swallows visibly, and his cheeks blush a furious red. “You know about Ruby?”

“Your me doesn’t,” Dean says. “Not yet, anyway.” Sam looks away guiltily, but Dean’s not done yet. “He also doesn’t know the _other_ thing yet.”

Sam’s eyes snap back to Dean’s. They’re wide with fear.

“All the _go juice_ you got runnin’ through you right now.”

Now Sam completely blanches. “I –”

He can’t seem to speak any more, and instantly, Dean feels the anger start to seep out of him, like a deflating balloon. “Sammy, look. I let all this go a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Sam croaks out. “Sure sounds like it.”

Dean’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve. . . I dunno. But do you get it now? Everything I know now – I need to keep my mouth shut.”

But Sam shakes his head. “No, look, why are we bothering with _any_ of that? Look at this opportunity you have. Everything you know, everything you – think of all the lives you could save. Dozens, hundreds maybe!”

Dean’s heart clenches painfully. “You think I don’t _know_ that? Who d’you think you’re talkin’ to, huh? Don’t you think –” Dean tries to blink away the sting of tears at his eyes. “The mistakes we’ve made – all of us. I wish I could change them, you have no idea how much.”

“Dean, _listen_ –”

“But I can’t. We have to carry it. _All_ of it. Because all of it – Lilith and Ruby and the Apocalypse and a million other things that you can’t even _imagine_ yet – that got us to where we are today. And I’m not gonna risk that, no way in hell. Not after everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve sacrificed.”

Sam stares at him. “You are so goddamn selfish.”

Thrown, Dean stares right back. “Excuse me?”

“So what, you got the girl, got your happy ending now, so the rest of the universe can just go fuck itself, huh?”

“Sam, I swear to _god_ –”

“This was not the angel’s doing.”

Dean just about hits the ceiling. He whirls around to see Cas, standing rigidly in the centre of the kitchen. Apparently Dean hadn’t heard the wingbeats over the yelling. “ _God_ , I don’t miss that,” he says.

“I have done some investigating. You were not brought here on Heaven’s orders,” Cas says. “ _You_ must have done something.”

Dean can still feel Sam glaring at the back of his head, so he decides to ignore him entirely and walks over to Cas instead. “Kay well, that’s what I thought anyway. So what did they say? Are they gonna let you send me back?”

Cas’ face kind of twitches. “I – I didn’t tell them you were here. Yet,” he adds quickly, his shoulders straightening.

A grin fights its way onto Dean’s face. Cas, ever the rebel. “Attaboy. And, y’know, thanks.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Cas snaps. “I did it because you know things, things that will be of interest to me.”

Dean’s heart sinks. “Cas, hey, buddy, I just got into this with Sam –”

“Like _that_.” Cas takes a step forward, moving in close. Despite everything, an involuntary, primal thrill shoots up Dean’s spine.

It seems that no matter what year it is, Dean still turns into a hormonal teenager around him. Swallowing roughly, he attempts to re-take control of his bodily reactions. “Like what?”

“Why do you know me?”

Dean stares at him for a second. “What d’you mean? You pulled me out of Hell. Like, a week ago.”

“Why do you _still_ know me?” Cas says, taking another step in. “You said you no longer take orders from Heaven. Then why do you talk as though we are still in contact? What further use are you to me?”

“Hey,” Dean says, stung. “You’d be surprised.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “You called me ‘buddy.’”

Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah. Haven’t actually been able to break that one.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means – I dunno, Cas, it means we’re. . . friends, y’know. You like me.”

Cas shakes his head. “No. Angels don’t make _friends_. Not with humans.”

Finally, Dean’s last thread of patience snaps. “Jeez, Cas, will you get your halo out of your ass for one goddamn second.” Dean hears Sam let out a gasp, but he ignores it.

“Do you remember what I said about _respect_?” Cas growls, but Dean’s had enough.

“No, alright, I’m not doing this. I’m tired of answering everybody’s questions, I’m tired of reliving this frankly _shitty_ chapter of my life. I want to go home, back to my family. Back to my _you_ , the real you, not the factory model.”

Cas’ composure is breaking. “And you – you think I could ever _like_ you.”

“Oh not just that,” Dean says, feeling suddenly reckless. “You fucking _married_ me.”

Cas freezes solid, his eyes wide.

All in, it seems, so Dean turns around to look at Sam, who’s standing just as stiffly as Cas. But the expression on his face is more than shock, it’s something else, something harder to name. It’s closer to betrayal.

“Yep,” Dean says loudly, looking back over to Cas defiantly. “You fell in love with me, Cas, and you married me.” He brings up his left hand and waves the ring in front of Cas’ nose.

“You’re lying,” Cas says.

Dean holds his eyes. “You know I’m not.”

Cas opens his mouth to speak, then abruptly closes it again. A moment later, he’s gone.

Dean stares at empty space for almost a full minute, then turns around to find Sam still just _looking_ at him. Without another word, Dean turns and walks out the front door and into the comforting silence of the scrapyard.

 


	2. Two

 

Dean traces his fingers along the roughly-carved marks on the table – two sets of initials, just like in Baby.

He lets out a long, low whistle, and it echoes all the way up to the towering ceiling. “Pretty swank. Gotta say, we’ve kinda stepped it up.”

Sam looks up from his stack of files and grins. “Yeah, not bad, right?”

“How long you been here? I mean, _we_.”

“Uh, few years,” Sam says, still evasive. “Long enough that it’s become home.”

“Yeah, guess so,” Dean says, as Castiel returns from one of the hallways, another box in his arms. He’s changed into jeans and a flannel, which is better than the boxers, but still profoundly weird.

He sets the box down on the table next to Sam. “Found one more with the same date.”

“Great. Fifth time’s the charm, I guess,” Sam says.

Castiel sighs in agreement and starts pulling out more files.

Dean returns to his own pile, but pauses a moment later when he feels Castiel’s eyes on him. “Can I help you with something?”

“No, I just –” Castiel offers him a small, apologetic smile. “How are you doing, Dean?”

Dean blinks. “I’m just _peachy_ , thanks.”

“I mean, I can’t imagine how strange this must be for you,” Castiel says awkwardly. “And so soon after. . . after where you’ve been. I know it’s a lot.”

Heat floods Dean’s face, and his heart rate picks up. Swallowing, he drops his eyes back to the files. “Yeah well, I don’t remember any of that, so it’s fine, y’know?”

The resulting awkward silence makes him look up again.

“Uh, listen, Dean –” Sam starts.

“We know you remember,” Castiel says, and Dean’s heart starts to pound even harder.

Dean jerks his head. “I don’t know what –”

“We don’t have to talk about it, it’s okay, Dean.” Sam keeps trying to catch his eye. “But we’re here, y’know, if you want. And I pretty much guarantee that we, well,” he half-smiles at Castiel. “We kinda know everything already.”

“Oh great,” Dean snaps. “That doesn’t make me feel violated at all.”

Sam winces. “Sorry, yeah. Just sayin’.”

“Yeah well, don’t.” Dean resolutely looks back down at the files.

The library turns uncomfortably silent. Dean tries to focus, but he can’t help but glance over at Castiel every couple minutes. It’s bizarre and strangely fascinating to watch him move, frowning and sighing at his papers.

The Castiel Dean knows is like a statue: stiff and cold and impersonal. This Castiel. . . he’s animated, he’s emotive. He’s relaxed. He looks like he _fits_.

“Here, the Harp of Netzach.”

Dean jumps, and Sam looks up as Castiel finally opens the correct file. “Apparently a Man of Letters named Ted Bowen brought it back to the bunker, after a dig in Palestine in 1936,” Castiel says.

“Ted Bowen, we’ve seen his name before,” Sam says. “What was he doing with it?”

Castiel skims the document in silence for a while before rolling his eyes. “Meddling. Of course.” He hands Sam a second sheet of paper from the folder. “Bowen wanted to improve on the Men of Letters’ blood sigil method of time travel, broaden its use.”

“The what?” Dean asks. “These dusty geeks could time travel?”

“They could, but the spell has its limits,” Sam says, reading over his page. “It can only take you through to a blood relative. Makes sense why Bowen would want to expand.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Maybe, but his experiments clearly didn’t go the way he wanted. Look,” he hands the page over to Dean. “He was only able to use the harp to see himself, his own personal history.”

“And he used it,” Sam says, then reaches into the folder. “Just once, before the Men of Letters shut his experiments down. Check it out.”

Dean and Castiel both look over to find a worn, black and white photograph in Sam’s outstretched hand. There are two people, a young boy about ten, and a man who looks to be in his fifties, standing arm-in-arm.

“The back,” Sam says, and Dean flips it over.

_Teddy (1897) and Ted (1938)_

“Jesus.”

“So that must be what happened,” Castiel says. “Dean, our Dean, he touched the harp and got sent back.”

Dean hands the photo back. “Okay great, but how the hell does that explain me?”

Frowning, Sam peers down at the page again. “Looks like there were plenty of glitches – one of the reasons Bowen was shut down. It must have pulled you forward when it was sending our Dean back.”

“Alright, great,” Dean says, slumping back in his chair. “So we know what happened. But you said the harp’s busted, how do I get back?”

Castiel purses his lips, then flicks his eyes to Sam. “I don’t know.”

“What about that spell,” Dean says, a little desperately. “The blood spell. I can use that, right?”

“Maybe,” Castiel says.

But Sam shakes his head, still reading the page. “I don’t think so. The way the blood spell was used, the way it was incorporated. . . Ted couldn’t ever use it again. He tried, after they stopped his experiments, but the regular magic wouldn’t work for him.”

“Well then what?” Dean says, standing. “I can’t stay here.”

“We know, Dean,” Sam says. “Trust us, we know. You need to be back there, for all our sakes. We’ll figure it out.”

Castiel sighs and drags a hand over his face. “We’ll have to keep digging.”

“No, you know what? I’m beat,” Dean says. It’s so hard to breathe in this place. “Where’s my room? I need to just – I gotta crash or something.”

Bizarrely, at that moment, Castiel turns to Sam, and he looks almost panicked.

“Uh, maybe that’s not a good idea,” Sam says. “I mean, you’ve already seen a lot of your future. Too much.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What’s so special about my bedroom? What am I gonna see, the formula for New Coke? Are there lotto numbers on the wall?”

Sam stands from the table and starts off towards the side door. “It’s just – y’know. It’s not a good idea. C’mon, there’s lots of guest rooms.” His voice is way too nonchalant.

It’s not at all convincing, but Dean follows him anyway, down a few of the corridors until they stop at a random door.

“Here,” Sam says, pushing it open. “Bed’s made, sink’s there. Bathrooms and showers are at the end of the hall.”

Dean steps into the room, taking in the old furniture and décor. It’s not bad, really, if you’re an eighty-year-old man.

“We’ll uh, we’ll keep working.” Sam’s kind of hovering at the door. “And Dean, look – we’ll figure this out, promise. We’ve been through way worse than this.”

“Have we?” Dean says, eyebrows raised. “Like what?”

Sam just gives him a look.

“Yeah, alright, worth a shot.”

“We’re out there, if you need anything,” Sam says, and then pulls the door closed.

Dean walks over and lies down on the bed, half-leaned against the headboard. He counts to a hundred.

Then he springs back up and moves over to the door, placing his ear against the wood. When he doesn’t hear anything, he reaches down and turns the handle, slowly, and pulls the door open. He looks left first, then right, then steps outside and silently shuts the door behind him.

No way in hell is he staying shut up in there. Whatever’s in his bedroom, his _future_ bedroom, whatever they’re keeping from him, Dean’s gonna find it.

It takes him almost twenty minutes of searching, opening door after door as quietly as he can. It’s all mostly storage, more rooms with boxes and books, but he also comes across a little gym, some kind of lab, and a bedroom that is almost definitely Sam’s, judging by the mess.

It’s hard to keep the layout clear in his mind, but Dean thinks he’s close to the kitchen again when finally, he opens the door to Room 11 and instantly knows this is it.

He steps all the way inside, eyes roving around hungrily. That’s his old sawed-off on the wall above the bed, his stack of records beside the desk. That’s –

That’s the shirt Castiel was wearing earlier, bunched up on a chair.

Dean frowns. Maybe he was wrong. There’s a closet against the wall; he walks over and starts pushing clothes aside. Plaid, army jackets, all in his size. Plus, there’s an awful lot of suits. There’s an awful lot of everything, really, way more than Dean could wear. None of this is adding up. He’s about to look away when he spots something tan at the very end of the rack. Heart racing, Dean pulls it out.

It’s the trenchcoat. Or _a_ trenchcoat anyway, it looks kind of different than Dean remembers. Regardless, it’s definitely not Dean’s, no chance in hell.

There’s static in his ears as he slowly turns around to the little sink by the door. There are _two_ toothbrushes in the cup.

No. No fucking way.

It’s then that he spots the pictures. He stumbles over to the desk, and with shaking hands, he reaches out for a framed picture of himself.

It’s him, there’s no denying it; it’s his older self and Castiel, both wearing suits, facing one another, with some woman framed behind them.

They’re holding hands. The look on his face –

Dean’s staggering out of the room before he can think any more, the photo still clutched in his hands.

He has no idea how he manages to find the library again, but all of a sudden he’s there, standing before his brother and the angel, quaking from head to toe.

“Dean, are you –”

“What the hell is this?” he says. His voice is shaking too.

Sam frowns, and drops his eyes to the picture. Recognition hits a moment later and they shoot back up, but Dean is looking at Castiel.

“I said _what the hell is this_.”

“Dean, listen –”

“I’ve got it, Sam,” Castiel says. His expression is hard to read. It’s somewhere between resigned, defiant, and – as much as Dean doesn’t want to admit it – heartbroken.

Sam looks hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“Go. I’ve got this one,” Castiel says, his eyes not leaving Dean’s.

“Yeah, alright.” Sam starts walking around the table, then comes up level with Dean. “Just – go easy, ‘kay?” he says lowly, and leaves the room.

The library door shuts, and then there’s deafening silence.

“You weren’t supposed to find that room,” Castiel says quietly.

Dean shakes his head. “You mean _our_ room, don’t you?”

Slowly, Castiel nods. “Yes.”

“This is – there’s no way. . .”

Castiel just keeps _looking_ at him, calm and steady and this is all such fucking _bullshit_.

“No, none of this makes any goddamn sense. I could _never_.”

Castiel nods again and licks his lips. “Look at your hand. Your right hand.”

“Why?” Dean says, feeling weirdly defiant.

“Just do it.”

He takes a moment to glare, then does as asked. “What about it?”

“Your third finger.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, it’s my mom’s ring. So what?”

He looks up again, and Castiel has his left hand raised.

And Dean stares.

Slowly, Castiel walks towards him, extending his hand, so Dean can clearly see the exact same ring sitting on his third finger.

“You gave this to me. You trusted me with it.”

Dean’s vision is going black around the edges. This is too much, this is _wrong_ and fucked up and he can’t breathe.

He hears Castiel calling his name from a distance, and it’s only then Dean realizes he’s running down a random hallway and it doesn’t matter where he’s going because for a moment he’s back _there_ ; black and white and red flash against his eyelids and there’s a blade in his hand and he’s drowning in blood.

Blindly, he yanks open a door and slams it behind him. He doesn’t bother turning on a light switch, doesn’t try to figure out where he is. He just collapses against the inside of the door and shuts his eyes tight.

 

 

One of the best thing’s about Bobby’s is the endless supply of distraction, in the form of beat-up and broken down cars. Dean’s spent the last two hours hunkered over the engine of a late model Pinto, attempting to reassemble what he knows is a lost cause.

He tilts his head up at the sound of an unmistakeable pair of heavy footsteps approaching the garage. “Found the books you needed?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says. “Brought a few things back. We’ll see.”

Dean nods and gives his wrench a few cranks.

“You sure you wanna be doin’ that? Maybe I’m the one that’s supposed to fix that engine. Maybe a year from now, I’ll need it for some hapless stranger.”

“Yeah well,” Dean says, “then I’ll just take it apart again when I’m done.”

“Nah,” Bobby says, coming around to lean against the driver-side door. “Leave it. I was gonna scrap it for parts anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean buries his head under the hood again.

Bobby shifts a bit and crosses his arms over his chest. “Sam said you’re married.”

“Yeah,” Dean says shortly.

“Mazel tov.”

Dean looks up briefly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“To. . . the angel.”

Nobody should have to go through coming out like this.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“The angel who looks an awful lot like a soccer dad.”

Finally, Dean stands up straight to look Bobby in the eye. “Yeah, I am. And it’s a lot, and it’s complicated, and – it’s _ten_ _years_ , Bobby, so spare me the judgement, I got enough of that from Sam.”

“Hey, I ain’t judgin’,” Bobby says, shrugging.

Dean furrows his brow. “No?”

“Boy, I’ve seen a wendigo puke up what’s left of a Boy Scout troop,” Bobby says. “You think you gettin’ hitched to a man is gonna give me the willies?”

Dean grimaces. “Yeah, guess not.”

“Mmhmm.” Bobby pushes away from the car and walks to the bar fridge against the garage wall. He returns a moment later with two bottles of beer, and hands one over wordlessly.

Some of the tension eases from Dean’s shoulders, and he ducks out from the hood to take it, then joins Bobby against the side of the car.

“Cheers,” Bobby says, and for a while they drink in silence.

Dean had forgotten just how much he missed this.

“You’re different,” Bobby says suddenly.

“Yeah yeah, roadkill on my face,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“I ain’t just talkin’ about the crows feet,” Bobby says. “The you I was talkin’ to yesterday, and the you I’m talkin’ to now. . .”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twists up. “Yeah. I was pretty messed up.”

“It’s not just that. You seem, I dunno. Lighter. But, heavier too.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Well that makes it clear.”

“Shut up,” Bobby gripes. “You look like you been through hell, but you came out the other side better for it.”

“Huh. Well, that’s something, I guess,” Dean says, and he takes another swig of his beer.

Bobby follows suit, then tilts his head. “And with – with Castiel,” he starts, hesitant, “you’re good? You’re. . . happy?”

Despite everything, a real smile inches across Dean’s face. “Yeah, Bobby. I’m real good.”

“Alright then,” Bobby says, nodding in approval. “That ain’t nothin’ either.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and he nods back. After a moment though, the smile drops from his face and he looks down to his dust-covered boots. “So you talked to Sam?”

“He was pretty riled,” Bobby says.

“I noticed.”

Bobby takes another pull from his bottle. “He’s had a rough few months. Losin’ you. Being on his own.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, staring out across the yard.

He can feel Bobby turn to face him. “So this apocalypse business. Everything your angel told you about, the seals, and the devil – that storm front’s rollin’ in, huh? You don’t have to gimme specifics,” he adds, when Dean tries to cut him off. “I don’t want the universe imploding just ‘cause we wanted a sneak peek.”

“Good,” Dean says. “But. . . yeah. It’s comin’. And a whole crap ton of other stuff.”

Bobby sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

With one final swig, Dean drains his beer and pulls away from the car to face Bobby fully. “It’s coming, but listen to me Bobby. We’ll get through it. _You’ll_ get us through it.” Dean’s voice wavers a bit, but he pushes on. “That’s not some future secret, I’m not tellin’ you anything you don’t already know. You’ll be there for Sam, and for me.”

Bobby looks at him for a moment, appraising. “For a while, anyway.”

Dean drops his eyes. “What d’you mean?”

“Boy, you got a lousy poker face.” He gives Dean a _look_. “When you saw me this mornin’, in the kitchen, you were seein’ a ghost.”

Swallowing, Dean looks away again. “Bobby, listen –”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know how it happens,” Bobby says. “But I’ve already lived longer ‘en I thought I would.”

There’s nothing Dean can say, nothing that doesn’t reveal too much, so after a while, Bobby just nods in resignation.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean finally says. “You’re maybe. . . in my time, you’re maybe not around anymore. But, let’s just say I’m not the last one in the family to come back from the dead. Not by a long shot.”

Bobby raises an interested eyebrow, but a moment later his gaze shoots a little to the left. At the same time, Dean feels the familiar prickles on the back of his neck, and he looks around to where Cas has just materialized in the junkyard.

“I’ll, uh. . .” Bobby starts inching away, heading back up towards the house. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he says, and gives Cas a wide berth.

Dean waits until Bobby’s well out of sight. “Hey.”

Cas doesn’t respond, other than maybe to narrow his eyes a fraction.

“So. . .” Dean grabs a rag from the edge of the hood, trying to get the worst of the engine grease off his hands. “You’ve had some time. You believe me now? About, y’know.”

Cas takes a long moment to stare at him. “I believe that you believe it,” he says coldly.

Dean huffs. “Yeah well, that’s a start I guess.” He chucks the rag back towards the garage workbench.

“How can I?” Cas says, and it sounds like he actually wants to know. He takes a few steps forward, his eyes searching Dean’s. “How can I believe that, believe any of what you say?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean says. “If I were you, I’d have a hard time with this too.”

Cas looks at him sharply. “You said that I fell in love with you. That’s impossible.”

Dean swallows. “I know you think that now –”

“We _do not_ love.”

“What can I say?” Dean attempts a smile. “You’ve never really been one to follow the rules.”

“ _No_ ,” Cas snaps, his head shaking a little wildly. “That is _not_ what I am.” He walks a few paces away, putting his back to Dean.

It’s not his Cas, Dean knows it, but he can’t help but move towards him. “Cas –”

“I serve Heaven,” Cas says, keeping his eyes averted.

“Heaven’s full of a bunch of asshats –”

“Enough,” he says, turning his head more fully away. “You know _nothing_.”

Dean takes a step closer, still trying to capture his eyes. “Oh, I know a hell of a lot more than you – Cas, damn it, look at me.”

“ _No_.”

“Why not?” Dean says. He reaches out before he can think better of it, one hand closing around Cas’ arm.

But Cas jerks it away. “Because you are proof! You are proof of my. . .”

“Your what?” Dean says. “Having feelings?”

“My _disobedience_ ,” he says, and he finally spins back around. There’s fire in his eyes. “You are proof that I have abandoned my brothers and sisters and everything I have ever known – and for what?” He looks Dean over, his expression dismayed. “A _human_. A human who is willful, and crude, and _disrespectful_ –”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Dean says.

Cas’ mouth slams shut. He looks away again, taking a moment to collect himself before he speaks. “You are asking me to accept something that betrays everything I understand to be true.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Dean takes a step forward. And then other. Cas looks back up at him with widening eyes, as Dean closes the distance until they’re only a foot apart. “Cas, listen to me. _Look_ at me. You don’t even need to read my mind, do you, you _know_ it’s the truth. I fell in love with you.”

“Your feelings are your own,” Cas mutters, dropping his eyes again.

“No, no, cut the bullshit,” Dean says, without heat. He leans in a few more inches, and watches as Cas’ eyes flick briefly to his lips before darting away again. “I fell in love with you. And you with me.”

Cas shakes his head, just slightly, but he seems less sure by the second.

Heart in his throat, Dean reaches out, his fingers unconsciously seeking Cas’.

But the moment they make contact, it breaks the spell. Cas yanks his hand back as though burned and starts stalking away, before whirling around. “What is the point of any of this? What do you want from me?”

Dean bites his lower lip. “There’s a you who’s waiting for me, and I need to get back to him. And to my Sam. I need you to help me get back to my time. I don’t belong here.”

“I told you before, I can’t help you. It’s not in my power to bend time on a _whim_.” He squares his shoulders, chin jutting out, and he refuses to look Dean in the eye. “Besides, angels do not interfere with human affairs.”

Panic flares up again in Dean’s chest. “No, hey, look. Forget about you and me, forget about disobedience. You need the other me back,” Dean says. “You need him _here_. He’s got a destiny or whatever. He’s gotta go through everything I did, so that I can end up where I am. I mean was. I mean – shut up, whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Says who?” Cas asks. He still won’t look at Dean. “ _You_ can be made to serve Heaven’s purpose just as easily as your younger self.”

“Ohh, you don’t want that, buddy, trust me.”

But Cas is just ignoring him now. “I trust that you already know all the information we would need to impart upon you, before the final days of the war,” he says. “That’s good.”

“Cas, hang on –”

“I won’t need to see you again until the time arrives.”

Dean’s insides are in knots, his heart is racing; he can’t let it end like this. “You can’t leave me here, Cas.”

Finally, he turns and meets Dean’s eye – one last time. “My name is _Castiel_ ,” he says, and then he’s gone.

 

 

Dean doesn’t know how long he stays in that room. It’s possible he sleeps a little bit, just a few minutes here or there. The dark room is soothing and silent.

After what must be hours, he hears a pair of footsteps approach from the hall. The door handle slowly rotates, but Dean’s still leaning against the door, so it doesn’t open.

“Dean?”

Great. Dean would’ve preferred it be Sam, but it’s not like this is a day for getting what he wants.

“Dean, let me in.”

Dean’s exhausted. The explosion earlier – not to mention the resulting panic attack – has drained him of every last ounce of fight, so with a sigh he heaves himself over a few feet.

The door cracks open, and light spills in from the hall. Dean doesn’t look up as Castiel inches into the room, and then shuts the door behind himself. A moment later a light flicks on and the room is bathed in soft amber.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Castiel says. “I’m sorry, again. I’m sorry you found out like that.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m the one who went poking around.”

“But I should’ve known you would.”

Now that the light’s on, Dean can see they’re in yet another storage room, this one much bigger, with rows and rows of metal shelves extending backward into the space. Castiel drops to the ground opposite Dean and leans back against them, propping his hands up on his raised knees.

Again, Dean is struck by the easy way he moves, the loose limbs and casual pose. He looks almost –

“Are you human?”

Castiel gives him half of a smile. “Yes.”

Dean shakes his head, dumbfounded. “How?”

“I chose to be,” Castiel says.

“What, angels can do that?” Dean asks. “Just decide to ditch the wings?”

Strangely, Castiel gives a little wince at that, but the expression is fleeting. “Most of the time, no. But given my. . . history, I was offered a choice.”

“Your history.”

He chuckles, and inexplicably, Dean’s heart skips a beat. “I have a habit of choosing humans over my own brothers and sisters.”

Dean swallows. “Humans?”

“The species in general,” he says lightly, “and a few in particular.” He gives Dean another soft half-smile.

“So much for not perching on my shoulder, huh?” Dean says, then drops his eyes.

“True,” Castiel says. There’s a long beat of silence before he speaks again. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

Dean looks back up again. Castiel’s expression is hard to read. “I dunno. I mean, you’re a. . . y’know. You’re a guy. So there’s that.”

At that, Castiel gives him a look. “Dean. . .”

Dean swallows again, his heart rate picking up. “Listen, we’re not goin’ there, okay?”

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Castiel says. “But if it helps – Dean I already know. I know because _you’ve_ told me.”

“Oh yeah? What the hell is it you _think_ you know?” It’s a dare, and despite his attitude, there’s a part of Dean desperately hoping Castiel will call him on it.

Castiel goes slow, and keeps his voice gentle. “I know that the first time you kissed another boy, you were sixteen. He gave you a ride after school and kissed you in the front seat of his car.”

Dean’s heart is racing. He hasn’t thought about this in years, he hasn’t let himself.

“The moment you got back inside your motel room you took a shower, because you were afraid your father would be able to smell his aftershave. You never told him – you never even told Sam.”

“But I told you?” Dean says, and his voice cracks a bit.

“You did,” Castiel says.

Dean shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m just havin’ a hard time believing that you know me better than Sam does.”

Castiel frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I do, exactly. It’s different.” He shifts a little against the shelves. “Sam _knows_ more, I think. He has a history and a. . . a shorthand with you that I could never rival. But I understand you, Dean, in a way he never could.”

Dean has no idea how to respond to that. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem like Cas needs an answer.

They sit in silence for a long while. It’s not comfortable, really, but it’s not that uncomfortable either.

“How?” Dean finally breaks the silence. “How did we. . . you know. Happen.”

Castiel fights a smile. “I could tell you, but we’d need ten more years. It’s been quite the journey.”

“Right. Well, how long, then?”

“How long what?”

Dean shifts against the wall. “Have we been, uh. Together.”

“Ah,” Castiel says, still smiling. “I think that’s a complicated answer too. But that,” he points a finger to a spot on the ground, and it’s only then Dean realizes he’d carried the picture frame with him into this room. “That was just over four months ago.”

Heart still thumping, Dean reaches out a shaking hand to pick it up again. “That’s it?”

“Like I said. It’s been. . . complicated.”

Now that the initial shock has passed, Dean takes the time to really look at the photo.

They’re smiling, all of them. Sam is beaming, Castiel looks unrecognizable, compared to the man Dean first saw in that barn. And Dean himself. . . he’s never seen that expression in a mirror.

“We look happy.” Dean looks up at Castiel.

Castiel nods and smiles, in what looks like disbelief. “We are.”

Feeling a little awkward, Dean looks at the rest of the scene. They’re outside somewhere, a backyard maybe. “Who’s that?”

Castiel leans forward. “Jody. I think there’s still another year before you meet her.”

“She a hunter?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “And she’s family too.”

That’s still so strange to think about, but Dean shakes it off and looks at the rest of the photo. There’s a figure on the other side of Castiel, a gangly teenage boy wearing a huge and sunny grin. “And that?”

Castiel’s face breaks into a smile, almost as wide as the kid’s. “That’s Jack. He’s – well, that’s complicated. But he’s almost. . . he’s like my son.”

“You have a son?” Dean asks, bewildered.

“Sort of. Adopted. It’s still taking some getting used to, frankly.” Castiel pauses and blinks a few times, clearly lost in thought, and Dean has to admit he’s pretty fucking cute.

It’s only then Dean realizes they’ve somehow inched closer together across the storage room floor. His heart starts to pound again, but this time it’s not quite due to panic.

Castiel looks up and their eyes meet again, only a foot or two apart now.

It’s a bit too much, so Dean shifts away slightly and clears his throat. “Listen, Cas, I’m sorry about before. I was pretty freaked.”

For some reason, Castiel’s face turns a little sad.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s the first time you’ve call me Cas,” he says.

Dean frowns. “Oh, sorry. Do I not do that?” He hadn’t even noticed, it seemed so natural.

Castiel smiles wryly. “That’s just it – you do.” He sighs, his eyes dropping back down to the photograph. “I miss Dean. _My_ Dean.”

“Oh, right.” It’s ridiculous, but there’s a strange sting of rejection in that. “Look, um, we’ll figure it out. I’m sure he wants to get back here as much as I want to get back there, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel says simply. “I just hope he can.”

“Well hey, I’m not that bad a substitute, right?” Dean has no idea where this bravado is coming from. It feels kind of reckless.

Castiel, however, looks amused. “I suppose not. You’re strong, loyal. You’ve got the same penchant for drama.”

“Hey.”

“Although he is better looking than you.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “I don’t know how insulted I should be by that.”

Castiel just smiles, then stands. He extends one hand down and pulls Dean up too, and maybe Dean holds on a beat longer than he needs to.

 

 

Dean shoves another t-shirt into his duffel and tries to ignore the way the button of his jeans is digging into his gut. Standing up straight, he hooks his thumbs into the loops to try and hoist the pants a little higher, but that just makes it worse. Ruefully, he stares down at the patterns of red marks all over his stomach. The last ten years have apparently been murder on his physique.

He’s tempted to put his sweatpants back on, instead of trying to squeeze into clothes his twenty-nine-year-old self had left at Bobby’s. Really, Dean’s grateful it was so cold in his room the other night, otherwise he might’ve shown up on the couch buck-ass nude.

Instantly, there’s a pang in his chest. What he wouldn’t give to be fighting over the blankets with Cas right now.

Gritting his teeth, he finishes packing.

“Where’s the hubby?”

Dean jumps. Damn, Bobby can be sneaky when he wants to be. “Fucked off, of course. Figures.”

He turns around to find Bobby raising an eyebrow.

“He used to do that. A lot. Forgot how much it sucks.”

“Should we build you a Widow’s Walk?”

Dean glares at him briefly before turning back around to zip up his bag.

“So where you takin’ off to?” Bobby says.

Shouldering the bag, Dean turns again and starts heading for the door. “Gonna try to get home.”

“What,” Bobby says, following after him, “you think if you run fast enough you’ll make it to 2018?”

“Y’know Bobby, I’d forgotten how funny you were.” Dean pushes the door open and steps out onto the porch.

The sun’s barely up yet, and there’s a hint of mist still clinging to the tall grasses beyond Bobby’s fence. Before Dean can really appreciate it though, movement catches his eye and he suddenly notices Sam out on the lawn. He’s grabbing his bag from Baby’s back seat, but whirls around when he hears Dean and Bobby up on the porch.

“Well, look who’s sneaking in, way past curfew,” Dean says snidely. “Busy night?”

Sam blushes, his eyes shifting between the two of them. “Just had some stuff to take care of,” he says with feigned nonchalance.

An old anger pulses through Dean’s veins. Somehow, the lying still hurts, almost as much as it did the first time around. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“Why, where’re you going?” Sam asks, nodding to Dean’s bag.

“Home, with any luck,” Dean says, climbing down the porch steps. “Maybe. If it works, you’ll have me back again in no time. You know, the other me, the one who’ll believe your bullshit for a while.”

Sam looks stung, but he recovers quickly, his expression going deliberately even. “Great, can’t wait.” He brushes past Dean and walks up into the house without another word.

The door slams shut, and there’s a beat of ringing silence.

“You wanna tell me what the hell all _that_ was about?” Bobby says.

“No, sorry Bobby,” Dean says, still fuming. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out.” He marches over to the car and replaces Sam’s bag with his own in the backseat.

“Yeah, and I bet it’ll be a picnic,” Bobby grumbles. “Fine. So where’re we going?”

Dean grimaces. “Look, Bobby, you can’t come. I’m kinda heading into a big spoiler for you, here.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “You really think I’m gonna let you take off on your own?”

“I’m not _takin’_ _off_ , and it’s not like it’s dangerous,” Dean says. “But where I’m going – I can’t let you see it. If you know, it could derail everything. Universe implosion, remember?”

“Hang on,” Bobby says. “Yesterday, you had no idea how to get back without your angel. What’s changed?”

Dean pauses, biting his tongue. “I just. . . look. When Cas said that it wasn’t the angels who pulled me back here, I started thinking about what could’ve happened, what _I_ could’ve done to make this happen.”

Bobby’s gaze turns knowing, and he sighs. “And?”

“I was working, the other day,” Dean starts, choosing his words carefully. “I was going through these boxes, all full of old crap.”

“What kinda old crap?”

“The kinda old crap that might accidentally catapult me through time if I touched it wrong,” Dean says. “Nothing else happened that day – I didn’t run into a witch or walk through any glowing portals or anything. I can’t think what else it could’ve been.”

Bobby nods. “So you wanna go find these boxes of crap now? See if whatever brought you back and can send you forward again?”

It’s not the greatest plan, but Dean shrugs. “Might as well try.”

“How do you know the boxes’ll be in the same place? It’s ten years different, they could be anywhere.”

Dean smirks. “Oh, they’re there, I know at least that much.”

Bobby looks at him a moment, then shrugs and starts walking around to the passenger side. “Alright, sounds like as good a plan as any. Let’s get crackin,’ we’re wasting daylight.”

“Bobby, I told you – you can’t come.”

“Oh no?” Bobby narrows his eyes. “You’re gonna go poking around a box of mysterious ‘old crap’ that’s already sent you H.G. Wells-ing once. You don’t think it’s a good idea to bring your resident Old Crap Expert along for the ride?”

Dean bites his lip again. “Bobby, this place –”

“I know how to keep my trap shut, boy,” Bobby says. “I know what’s at stake here. Whatever it is you show me, I’ll take it to my grave.”

There’s that pang in Dean’s heart again. “Bobby, listen. . .” He sighs, and admits defeat. “Alright, fine. You can’t tell anybody. Not Sam – not _me_.”

“Great. Finally,” Bobby says. “Now get in the damn car.”

Grinning, Dean does.

“So, where we going?” Bobby asks, once they’ve hit the highway.

“Lebanon, Kansas.”

“I hear it’s nice this time of year,” Bobby says.

Dean chuckles. “Bobby, you have no idea.”

 

 

It’s funny how ten years can go by, and some things don’t change at all. There’s still a case, sort of, and that means there’s still hours and hours of research.

They’re hunkered down in the library again – all three of them, and that’s still taking some getting used to – and poring over more books than Dean thought possible.

“Hey, got something, maybe,” Dean says, and angles a text toward Cas. “This symbol, it’s for the god of time. Says here we can summon him, maybe he’d help. His name is. . . Chronos.” He turns hopeful eyes to Sam.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, grimacing. “Sorry, Chronos is a no-go.”

Dean frowns. “Why?”

“Sam killed him,” Cas says idly, returning to his pile of papers. “Several years ago.”

Disappointed, but a little impressed, Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam. “You killed the god of time?”

“Yeah, saving your ass. You’re w-welcome,” he says around a rather obnoxious yawn. He reaches for his cup, only to glare at it when he finds it empty.

“I’ll go put on another pot,” Cas says, and gathers up all three of their mugs and heads off toward the kitchen.

Dean finds himself staring after him, before he yawns too. Surprisingly, he’d managed to get a couple hours sleep in the guest room. The mattress was seriously comfortable, and he’s probably never been in a better shower in his life. These Men of Letters really knew how to live.

Sighing, Dean closes the book he’s been idly flipping through. It’s not getting him anywhere, so he grabs another from the towering stack at the end of the table. This library puts Bobby’s to shame.

Dean glances at Sam. “So, I was looking at that picture some more. Y’know, the. . . the wedding picture.”

Sam’s only half listening. “Oh yeah?”

“And, Bobby,” Dean says. “He wasn’t in it.”

Sam’s face falls, and Dean feels a blow hit his stomach.

“Yeah.” Sam sets his own book down too.

Dean knew. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he knew. Bobby’s absence is palpable, not just in the bunker, but in their lives now. “When?”

Sam makes that face again, the one that means he’s afraid time’s gonna explode if he opens his mouth. “A few years.”

That’s irritatingly vague, but Dean doesn’t push.

“It’s – I mean, it’s been hard. Obviously.” Sam’s eyes drift away, before sliding back to meet Dean’s. “But y’know. He went down swingin’. On the job.”

“Right,” Dean says, trying to adjust to the new hole in his gut. “Guess that’s the most any of us can ask for.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Sam says, as Cas reappears with their coffees, laid out on a tray.

He sets it down on the table. “I put some toast in too, it should be almost done.”

Dean snickers as he reaches for his cup. “Wow, full service angel.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been called that before,” he says, then walks away again and leaves Dean choking on his first gulp of coffee.

“Wow,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“What?” Dean asks, feeling his face go a little red.

“Nothing. It’s just – you know. You two, it never changes. No matter where or when. You’re relentless.”

Face fully flushed now, Dean clears his throat. “Right, sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah you do. And don’t worry, I find it kind of comforting, actually.”

Dean stares at him, shaking his head absently. This whole thing with Cas is way out of left field, but it’s Sam’s reaction that’s throwing Dean off most right now. “So you’re really okay? With him and me?”

“Seriously?” Sam says. “You said you looked at the wedding photo. Did you see me? Did you see the look on my face?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean mumbles.

Sam nods. “Dean, somehow, through the mountain of bullshit we’ve had to deal with our whole entire lives, you and Cas managed to figure it out. Do you sometimes annoy the crap out of me with the goo-goo eyes? Yes. _Hell_ yes.”

Dean blushes again.

“But seriously man, you guys are happy. And I’m happy for you,” he says. “That’s all there is to it.”

Dean’s about to nod when he catches movement in the corner of his eye. He looks over to find Cas standing by the hall door. “Hey, what happened to the toast?” Dean asks.

Cas ignores him – he’s looking around the room suspiciously, and seems rather focused on the high ceiling.

It’s only then Dean realizes he’s changed his clothes. For some reason, he’s wearing the suit and the trenchcoat again.

Dean frowns, but before he can say anything he hears footsteps coming from the war room. He turns around, and his jaw hits the floor.

Cas has returned from the kitchen, a plate of toast in one hand and a half-eaten piece in the other. Dean watches as his eyes slide over to the hall door, then turn wide and round as he takes in another version of himself.

“Uh, Cas?” Sam says, standing slowly from the table.

Cas guiltily swallows his mouthful of toast.

The Cas in the suit finally looks down from the ceiling and stares at his double. “Hello, Castiel. I think we need to talk.”

He raises his hand, snaps his fingers, and suddenly the scene is different. In the space of a single breath, the two Castiels are gone, and Dean and Sam are outside somewhere, blinking away bright sunlight.

“Sonofa _bitch_.”

 


	3. Three

  
  
It’s early afternoon when Dean turns onto the familiar road, and a moment later the looming towers of the power plant come into view.  
   
“Here we are, home sweet home,” Dean says, pulling up in front and switching off Baby’s engine.  
   
Bobby gives him a look. “Is future you squatting in an abandoned factory? Don’t tell me the economy’s gotten worse.”  
   
“Oh, don’t get me started,” Dean says, climbing out of the car. “And by the way, don’t take the next eight years for granted. Just sayin’.”  
   
Giving the front railing a little pat, Dean heads left toward the side of the building.  
   
“Isn’t that the door?” Bobby asks.  
   
“The front door, yes,” Dean says, motioning for Bobby to follow. “But that door has gotta stay locked for another few years. We don’t have the key yet.”  
   
Bobby falls into step behind him as Dean fights his way through the overgrown brush against the side of the building. “Okay, so we’re heading to the back door.”  
   
“The rarely used, very well-hidden side door,” Dean says, his eyes now scanning the wall. “I didn’t find it until after we’d already been here two years.”  
   
Finally, he spots the fine seam in the metal siding. He pushes aside an overhanging branch and wipes away some dirt to reveal the faint lines of the Aquarian star where a door handle would be.  
   
“Really hope this works,” Dean mutters, then places his palm flat against the symbol and pushes. The symbol glows a little, then there’s a soft click and the door swings inwards. “Yahtzee.”  
   
“Seriously?” Bobby says, as Dean ducks inside the passage. “So this place, vault for all supernatural knowledge, nigh impenetrable, has a back door that ain’t even locked?”  
   
“Hey, sometimes even Men of Letters forget their keys. Besides, it is locked,” he adds, feeling his way along the wall for the light switch. “Sort of. Blood magic. Only a Man of Letters could’ve opened that door.”  
   
At last, Dean’s fingers find the switch, and he clicks it on. One by one, the garage lights flicker on. A broad smile crosses Dean’s face unbidden, and he looks around to Bobby.  
   
“Damn,” Bobby says, eyes on a car in the far corner of the garage. “That’s a Packard Panther.”  
   
Still smiling, Dean jerks his head toward the hallway door and switches on his flashlight. “Eyes only, Bobby. I’m the one who’s gotta find these.”  
   
Bobby grumbles, but follows him into the dark hall anyway.  
   
It’s strange, walking through the bunker like this. Despite how well Dean knows the place, it feels completely different with the lights all off and covered in layers of dust he scuffs through with his feet. Weirdly, it feels like he’s walking through a tomb.  
   
“Stay close,” Dean adds over his shoulder, as they turn a corner. “It’s easy enough to get lost in here.”  
   
“You boys really live here?”  
   
“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “No place like it.”  
   
After a minute or two, Dean pauses, directing his flashlight beam up onto a door.  
   
“This your mysterious room of boxes?” Bobby says  
   
“No.” Dean reaches out a hand and traces his fingers across the metal 11. “My room. Our room,” he says, then swallows and keeps moving.  
   
Finally, they come to the right stretch of hallway, and Dean pushes open the door.  
   
“Pretty sure it was this one,” he says, flicking on the dim light bulb.  
   
It’s only then Dean remembers the reason he was organizing this room to begin with – it’s a disaster. There are boxes everywhere, some open and overflowing with junk.  
   
“Man,” Dean says, kicking a pile of crap in the corner. “I just cleaned up in here.”  
   
“Back at it, Cinderella,” Bobby says. “And let’s get diggin’. But if I end up back in the 80s, it’s your prepubescent ass I’m comin’ for.”  
   
That thought alone is terrifying enough to get Dean motivated. He sighs and starts on a box, carefully picking through the items in hopes of sparking. . . something.  
   
The minutes tick on, boxes are emptied and re-filled, and before Dean knows it they’ve been in here an hour. Then two.  
   
“This is ridiculous,” he finally says, dropping an old wooden figurine back onto a shelf. “I got no clue what we’re even looking for. It could’ve been anything that I touched. Or, it could’ve been nothing in here, and I got zapped back some other way.”  
   
“Great, now you tell me,” Bobby says tiredly, emptying yet another box onto the ground. “We need a break anyway, I’m starving. There any food in this place?”  
   
“Cold war rations, but I definitely wouldn’t recommend it,” Dean says, poking at what he thinks is a bag full of human bones. “We don’t want a repeat of the Great Food Poisoning Incident of 2015.”  
   
Bobby makes a face. “Delightful.”  
   
“I was hungry,” Dean says defensively, then his eyes fall to a bundle in Bobby’s hands. “Wait.”  
   
Dean reaches out and flips back a bit of white cloth to reveal a charred wooden something.  
   
“This, this is it, it’s gotta be.”  
   
Frowning, Bobby looks down. “How can you tell?”  
   
“I remember the cloth, it was wrapped around an old harp.”  
   
Carefully, Bobby brings the bundle up to eye level. “I guess it kinda looks like a harp, although it looks like it’s been charbroiled a bit.”  
   
“That’s my point,” Dean says. “It didn’t look like that when I found it.”  
   
“When you found it ten years from now,” Bobby says. “How’s that possible?”  
   
“Look, don’t ask me to explain that,” Dean says. “We’re talking time travel here, I barely understand it as is. But. . .” He trails off as realization hits him. “It’s definitely what sent me back here.”  
   
“Explain?”  
   
Dean reaches out and takes the harp out of Bobby’s hands. “I was gonna show Cas. Y’know, angel, harp – I was gonna try and take a picture.” Dean chuckles to himself, before swallowing. “And then I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve thought of him that way. With the wings and the halo and everything. How it had been years since he was An Angel, with the big A.”  
   
Bobby nods. “So, you were thinking of now, basically.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean says.  
   
“Okay. Now we know how you got here. Sort of. I mean, it’s still a lump of wood, but whatever.”  
   
“Right,” Dean says. “So maybe I click my heels and think of home. . .”  
   
He reaches out a hand, slowly, then pauses and meets Bobby’s eyes.  
   
Bobby nods. “Go on, boy. Just make sure you send your prettier self back here.”  
   
There’s a lump in Dean’s throat. “Yeah. And hey, Bobby. . .” He doesn’t quite know what to say.  
   
Fortunately, Bobby just nods again. “See ya around, Dean.”  
   
“Right,” Dean says. He takes a deep breath, focuses his thoughts on Cas and Sam and 2018, then touches the harp.  
   
And nothing happens.  
   
He frowns, pulls his hand away, then touches it again. Still nothing.  
   
“Yep, saw that one coming,” Bobby says. “Can we get some dinner now?”

 

  
  
“Dean, just hold up a second.”  
   
Sam’s trying to push his way past an irritated but incredibly determined Dean, blindly storming his way through the bunker from some random side door. That garage is definitely going to get another look, but first they need to get back to Cas and figure out he’s not about to be erased from time or some shit.  
   
“You don’t even know which way you’re going,” Sam says, panting.  
   
Dean has to admit he’s got a point, so he begrudgingly lets Sam take the lead. “Fine, just hurry up. Who knows what they could be talking about.”  
   
“Cas’ll be fine. I mean, our Cas. Well, both of them, really,” Sam says, but nevertheless keeping up Dean’s half-jogging pace. “At least the old Cas only sent us outside.”  
   
“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean says. “We should consider ourselves lucky he didn’t whammy us into the sun.”  
   
But Sam shakes his head, leading them down a hallway that’s finally starting to look familiar. “He wouldn’t have. He liked you. Even then, he wouldn’t have hurt you.”  
   
A bit of warmth burns in Dean’s chest, but it’s quickly extinguished. “But he might hurt Cas,” Dean says, grabbing Sam’s arm and finding his eyes. “From the very – very very – little you’ve told me, I get the impression that the whole human thing wouldn’t go over too well with Captain Squint in there.”  
   
Sam grimaces, just as they come to a junction in the hall.  
   
“Am I wrong?”  
   
“No, I guess not.” Sam sets his jaw, then looks one direction down the fork. “Alright, fine, better safe than sorry. The door’s just up there – you get as close as you can, but keep your distance. Cas wouldn’t hurt you, but I wouldn’t put it past him to send you to Bora Bora if you annoyed him enough. I’ll take the long way around to the other side and set up a little insurance.” He pulls his pocketknife from his jeans.  
   
Alarmed, Dean reaches out to grab his wrist. “Whoa whoa, the hell you gonna do with that?”  
   
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt him,” Sam says, pulling his hand free and backing away down the hallway. “But we can get rid of him for a bit if we need to.”  
   
Before Dean can ask any more questions, Sam’s gone and out of earshot. With one last look, Dean turns away and inches up to the library door at the end of the hallway, keeping his footfalls quiet.  
   
The door is only open a crack, barely enough for Dean to see too much of anything, but fortunately he can hear them just fine.  
   
“You still haven’t answered my question. Is my Dean alright?”  
   
That has to be this Cas, now Cas, because the voice that answers sounds distinctly colder. “He is safe. He exists in my time now, and he will be made to suit Heaven’s purposes.”  
   
A chill runs up Dean’s back.  
   
“Why?” Cas says, imploring. “Why interfere with what has already come to be? With the course of history? Return both Deans to their proper times, and things will play out the way they are meant to.”  
   
“How can you say that?” Old Cas says. “The war, the Apocalypse – this world is not free of evil.”  
   
“But it is still here,” Cas says fervently. “Through Dean’s actions – and Sam’s, and others – the apocalypse was stopped, lives were saved. Countless lives. By changing things now, you risk everything.”  
   
Carefully, Dean leans in a little further, trying to get a better view.  
   
“And what of you?” Old Cas says, after a long silence. “Look at yourself. Look at what has become of you!”  
   
 “What I have become is someone who believes in freedom and choice,” Cas says. “My fate is of my own making.”  
   
“And you can live with that?” Old Cas spits. “You betray your family, and you are without regret?”  
   
“I have regrets,” Cas says, voice cracking with emotion. “I have done things even you could never imagine.”  
   
There’s an unexpectedly sharp pain in Dean’s heart. Cas sounds so broken. That regret – it’s a feeling Dean understands all too well.  
   
“Then why?” Old Cas says. “Why do you not welcome this?”  
   
“Because we cannot go backwards,” Cas shoots back. “We must move forward, always, or we’ll drive ourselves mad. And because I will not risk what I have now. My regret is the price I pay. And believe me, I got off easy.”  
   
Old Cas is silent again for a while. Dean’s just drawing in a little closer as movement on the other side of the library catches his eye. He can just see a sliver of Sam through the door at the rear of the room, painting something on the wall. It looks like he’s drawing in blood.  
   
“I don’t understand. What you’ve done – I would never take this path.” Old Cas finally says, pulling Dean’s gaze away from the symbol.  
   
Cas sighs. “I can’t be the one to convince you, Castiel. It will happen in its own time.”  
   
“Because of Dean Winchester.”  
   
“Because it is who we are,” Cas says, like it’s the simplest fact in the universe. “Dean merely helped us understand that.”  
   
This is too much, this is crazy, but that warmth returns to Dean’s chest.  
   
“You care about him so much.” There’s something strained about Old Cas’ voice.  
   
“I do.”  
   
“Why?” Old Cas says, agitated. “Why would you throw away everything you are?”  
   
Weirdly, Cas sounds like he’s smiling. “You like humans. You always have.”  
   
“I appreciate humans,” Old Cas says stuffily. “They are our Father’s creation. But this human. . .” There’s the shuffling of feet, and Dean thinks he’s pacing. “I do not understand, Castiel. The way he speaks to me, the way he looks at me. . .”  
   
Dean is suddenly drowning in embarrassment. He’s going to kill himself. The other himself.  
   
“He is brash, and disrespectful, and impetuous –”  
   
“Yes, he really is.” Cas is definitely smiling now. “And you love him.”  
   
It hits Dean like a sack of bricks, and he almost drops to the floor. He knew, really, but hearing it out loud like that. . .  
   
“You’re wrong. I don’t –”  
   
“I’m the one person you can’t lie to, Castiel,” Cas says. “You love him already.”  
   
The silence is agonizing, Dean’s barely breathing, until finally Old Cas speaks again. “Then perhaps they should both stay where they are. Perhaps that will prevent all of this.”  
   
“No!”  
   
It takes Dean a second to realize that was his own voice that time.  
   
Grimacing, he pulls the door open and steps slowly into the room, hands raised in surrender. “Look, sorry, don’t snap me to Siberia or something,” he says quickly, because Old Cas looks about two seconds from raising his fingers again. “But c’mon, man, you’ve gotta set this right.”  
   
“I don’t,” Old Cas says, but he sounds unsure. There’s the faintest tint of a blush in his cheeks as his eyes dart away from Dean’s. “If I do that, I’ll be sealing my fate. This fate.”  
   
Dean finds Cas’ eyes. “Is that really so bad?”  
   
Cas smiles softly, but Old Cas’ face turns flat and hard again. “For an angel, yes. It is.”  
   
“Okay, you know what? Enough,” Dean says, taking another few steps forward. “This is all bullshit anyway. You know things can’t stay like this, okay, you know I have to go back.”  
   
Old Cas doesn’t respond, and again he avoids Dean’s eyes.  
   
“Not to mention, you think the other me’s just gonna take it all lying down? He’ll just go along with your little plans?”  
   
“He’s right,” Cas says. “I have a decade’s worth of proof that Dean Winchester can’t be forced into anything.”  
   
“I. . .” Old Cas is floundering now, unsure.  
   
Cas seems to sense it. “You are interfering with time,” he says, almost gentle now. “Even we can’t know the consequences of that.”  
   
“But now I can change things,” he says, and panic jolts through Dean again. “I will simply not go down this path.” He finally looks up and locks his eyes onto Dean. “I will not make your mistakes, Castiel.”  
   
Dean swallows nervously, but Cas just smiles. “You can try.”  
   
Old Cas looks over at him sharply, then with a whirl of wingbeats, he’s gone.  
   
“No! Damnit,” Dean says, before turning to Cas. “Will he be back? You think we got through to him?”  
   
Shaking his head, Cas leans his hands down on the long wooden table. “I don’t know. But if anyone could have, it’s you. And, you can come out now, Sam,” he adds.  
   
Sam pokes his head through the back door, glancing around the room once before walking back over to them, cradling a very bloody hand.  
   
Wordlessly, Cas reaches into his back pocket and throws over a handkerchief.  
   
“Thanks,” Sam says, catching it one-handed, then immediately starting to wrap up the wound. “Man, I’d forgotten what a tool you used to be.”  
   
“That is the word,” Cas says, bringing an exhausted hand up to rub at his face. “Heaven’s tool.”  
   
 “So what now?” Dean asks, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “He was my way home. What if he never comes back?”  
   
Sam steps in close and drops a heavy pat on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, we’ll figure it out. We’ll get you home. Gimme a sec to clean this, then we’ll get right back to the books,” he says, then walks past Dean and out into the hall.  
   
Almost instantly, Dean’s eyes are drawn back to Cas, still half-leaning against the table. Suddenly, Dean’s nervous, his heart hammering in his chest.  
   
“So,” he starts, swallowing, and Cas looks over at him. “You. . . loved me. From the very start?”  
   
Cas quirks up the corner of his mouth. “Was that a surprise to you?”  
   
“Yes, I mean, no. I dunno –” Words are suddenly really hard.  
   
Still smiling, Cas leans away from the table and slowly moves towards him. “Pulling a man out of Hell will create a certain bond, as you might imagine.”  
   
“But that’s just it,” Dean says, a little desperately, and trying to ignore the way Cas keeps looking at him and making his breath catch. “I’m a mess! Look at me, this me! I’ve got all kinds of crap in my head, the things I’ve done – how could you have fallen for this? I’m. . . I’m fucked up, Cas.”  
   
“Yes,” Cas says, “and you are good.”  
   
If possible, it becomes even harder to breathe. Cas keeps moving closer, his eyes not leaving Dean’s, and things seem to be heading somewhere that Dean is having a hard time comprehending. “How can you –”  
   
“I know your soul, Dean, better than anyone, I think.” Cas takes another slow step in, as Dean’s heart seems to leap up into his mouth. “I know everything that you are. I loved you then, and I love you now. Every part, every version of you.”  
   
Tears well up in Dean’s eyes, unbidden, and he drops his gaze. But Cas doesn’t let him hide; instead, he reaches out with one gentle hand.  
   
The moment his skin makes contact, heat sparks through Dean, intense and electric and overwhelming. Dean draws in a small gasp as Cas pulls at Dean’s jaw until their eyes meet again.  
   
“It will take time, Dean, but I promise you, you will heal.”  
   
That’s it, the tears fall. Cas goes blurry and Dean wants to look away but Cas holds him there; he holds Dean perfectly in place as he leans all the way in to press their lips together.  
   
The heat burns again, soft and warm and bright, emanating from somewhere deep inside him, but grounded in this one point of simple contact. Cas kisses him sweet and chaste and so full of love.  
   
Dean thinks he understands now, how this future happened, why Cas is fighting so hard for it. Because this is it, this is everything.  
   
“Wow,” Dean gasps as Cas leans away, gently breaking the kiss. His whole body is buzzing. “Is. . . uh, is it always like that?”  
   
Cas smiles wide. “Yeah, pretty much.”  
   
Dean shakes his head, bemused and turned on and fucking thunderstruck. “Damn. Lucky me. Wait, hang on, wasn’t that kinda like cheating?”  
   
Cas looks distinctly amused. “And how long do you think it took the other you to try and do the same with the other me? He’s you, remember?”  
   
That’s. . . a really good point.  
   
“Not that I believe he had much luck,” Cas adds.  
   
Dean clears his throat a little. “Yeah. The other you, he’s kind of a tightass.”  
   
“That has its benefits.”  
   
Dean’s eyes go very wide. “I think I’ve been a really bad influence on you.”  
   
“Probably.”

 

  
  
“Well, that was a colossal waste of time,” Dean grumbles, as Baby pulls into the scrapyard driveway.  
   
“Good thing you got plenty of time now,” Bobby says, throwing a look over his shoulder to the back seat. “You sure it was a good idea taking that thing with us? Future you’s supposed to be the one to find it.”  
   
Dean flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, where the charred remnants of the harp lie, wrapped in the old cloth. “Figure it’s probably worse for us to be in the bunker too long. The place is full of crap like this – cursed objects and frickin’ witches. . . who knows what damage we coulda done there. Ahead of schedule, I mean.”  
   
As Dean brings Baby to a stop, he spots Sam waiting on the porch steps, his hands clasped nervously between gangly legs.  
   
Sighing, Dean swings the door open. “This oughta be fun.”  
   
“I’ll just be inside,” Bobby says. He gives Sam a little nod on his way up the steps before disappearing through the door.  
   
For something to do, Dean pulls open the back seat to grab his bag. “Hey.”  
   
“You’re still here. I mean, you are, you know,” Sam says awkwardly. “I’m guessing that means – ”  
   
“Yep.” Dean cuts him off, shutting the door with more force than is strictly necessary. “Plan was a bust. Still no sign of the younger, more gullible brother.”  
   
Sam flinches, and Dean instantly feels a flicker of regret. “Listen, Dean, I’m sorry.”  
   
“For what?” Dean asks, leaning a hip against Baby’s hood.  
   
Sam gives him a look. “For before, ragging on you about Lilith and everything. All this time travel stuff, I guess I was just. . . I dunno.” He lets out a long breath. “You’re not selfish, I shouldn’t have said that.”  
   
Sighing, Dean drops his bag on the hood of the car and climbs up the steps to sit down beside his brother.  
   
“This fight we’re in, Dean, what we’re up against. . . it’s so big. And I’m doing everything I can, but I don’t know how we’re gonna make it through.” Sam looks out across the scrapyard. “But you do. You know what we have to do. And I guess I’m just so wrapped up in this right now, that was all I could see.”  
   
“I know, Sammy,” Dean says.  
   
“But I get it now, I think,” Sam says. “What you were saying before. Knowing what you know, and not being able to fix it, like you always try and fix everything. This – this has gotta be torture for you.”  
   
Dean chuckles bitterly. “You got no idea.”  
   
Neither of them speak again for a while. The sun’s gone down and the mist is returning, drifting through the scrub around the edges of the yard. Distant sounds of traffic are drowned out by the racket of crickets and spring peepers from the nearby clusters of trees.    
   
“And hey,” Sam says, his voice awkward again. “About the other thing. The whole. . . I mean, married thing.”  
   
Dean’s stomach clenches painfully, nerves flaring up.  
   
But Sam surprises him. “I’m sorry about that too. Caught me off guard, I guess. But I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s great. I mean, if you think it’s great, then I. . . I mean I don’t really understand everything, obviously, but if it’s who you are –”  
   
“Whoa, at ease there, Sam.” Dean throws up his hand. “Don’t hurt yourself.”  
   
“Listen, I mean. . .” Finally, Sam turns to look him in the eye. “I think what surprised me most is that I never knew.”  
   
“How could you? You hadn’t even met him yet,” Dean says.  
   
Sam shakes his head. “No, not about Castiel, I mean about you. You being g– you know, liking guys.”  
   
Shifting uncomfortably against the steps, Dean takes a breath. “Look, what you. . . know about me, and y’know, me and women, that’s not a lie. It’s just. . . it’s just not the whole truth. And I mean, with dad –”  
   
“Yeah, I get it,” Sam says, mercifully cutting him off. “And I guess I’m sorry for that too, y’know. Sorry you couldn’t ever tell him, had to. . . keep it in or whatever.”  
   
A lump has formed in Dean’s throat, and he swallows roughly around it. “Thanks, Sam.”  
   
“Yeah,” he says. He’s silent for a while, but then chuckles to himself. “So, did this talk go better with Future Me?”  
   
Dean snorts. “Future You had to put up with almost a decade of Cas and me living our own personal soap opera. By the time I was ready for this talk, you’d already picked out china patterns for us.”  
   
“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Sam says.  
   
“I won’t tell you what happens with Lilith,” Dean says abruptly, and the smile drops from Sam’s face. “I can’t. But the rest of it, Sammy – with the apocalypse and Ruby and the demon blood – you’ll get through all that. I’m not sayin’ it’s gonna be easy. . .” He finds Sam’s wide, unblinking eyes. “There’s gonna be some major shit that hits the fan. But you’ll get through it, and you and me – we’re gonna be okay. I promise that. Okay?”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding a bit hoarse. “Okay.”  
   
Dean nods. “Good.”  
   
Sam clears his throat after a moment, then nods down to Baby. “So, your big idea was a no-go, huh?”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean’s shoulders slump. “I figured out what brought me back, but it was a one-off. All burnt up now.”  
   
“So what now? How do we send you home? And get our version of you back?”  
   
“I dunno, Sammy.” Dean shakes his head, gaze dropping to the rickety wooden steps. Except he does know, he’s felt it for a while.  
   
There’s a sinking feeling of reality crashing in, one that started creeping its way through Dean’s mind from the moment they found the charred and useless harp. Cas has disappeared – maybe for good this time, and Dean’s not likely to get another angel on board to help. He might be stuck here permanently.  
   
“Well let’s get to work,” Sam says, hauling himself up off the steps. “There’s a way, and we’ll find it. You deserve to get home.”  
   
Dean takes a second just to look up at him in something like wonder. It’s strange, Sam’s already been through so much in his life, but in this moment he looks so young. His eyes are wide and hopeful and there’s a small smile inching across his face. “I’ll be in in a minute,” Dean says, smiling back.  
   
“‘Kay,” he says. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” He climbs the rest of the way up the steps and into the house.  
   
Dean watches him go, then looks back out over the scrapyard. His eyes trace the outlines of dozens of clunkers and rusty, mangled frames, and something in his heart eases. This place has always been good about taking in the old and the broken. There are worse places to be marooned in time.  
   
The bunker’s home now, in so many ways, and it has been for a long time. But Dean thinks it’s possible he’s never felt safer than when he’s been in this house. It’s hard to explain why, but even after everything, he thinks he’d take Bobby’s rattling screen door over the bunker’s iron walls any day.  
   
It’s almost completely dark out now, the sky turned a deep navy with only one or two stars flickering near the horizon. Maybe they’re planets, actually, but Dean can’t remember what’s supposed to be visible right now.  
   
Cas would know. Cas tried to teach him once, nearly a year ago. They’d taken a walk late one night in August, just after Cas became human. They found an old field a mile or so from the bunker, and Dean had thrown a blanket across the glistening grass. They’d lain on their backs, staring up at the sky and watching a riot of shooting stars.  
   
Well, that was how it started.  
   
Dean really shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t remember the finer points of astronomy. It’s hard to keep Venus and Alpha Centauri straight when there’s a guy there between your legs, trying his best to suck your brain out through your dick.  
   
Chuckling softly, Dean drops his head down and is not at all surprised to find he’s been absently fiddling with his ring again. It’s a habit that formed quickly after putting it on; any time he and Cas were apart or in a fight or separated on a hunt, Dean’s fingers go to it instantly. He likes doing it, actually. It’s grounding. Not for the first time – and for more reasons than one – he wishes he’d put it on a long time ago.  
   
“I miss you, man,” he says quietly, and his words are immediately swallowed up by the darkness. “I wish you were here.”  
   
“I am.”  
   
“Son of a bitch!”  
   
Dean jumps about a fucking mile, as Cas just materializes three feet from the foot of the stairs.  
   
“Don’t do that! I mean – wait.” Dean adds hurriedly, as Cas raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, yes, do that. I’m glad to see you, obviously. You just, you know – I’m an old man, the ticker’s not what it used to be.”  
   
“You are barely forty years old,” Cas says, his tone deadpan and exceptionally familiar. “That is by no one’s definition ‘old.’”  
   
Despite himself, Dean grins. Man, Old Cas could be a lot of fun. “Fair point.” Carefully, Dean stands, then inches down the steps, suddenly terrified of making the wrong move. “So, you’re here. I. . . wasn’t sure you’d be back.”  
   
“Neither was I,” Cas says, and he looks like it. He’s distinctly uncomfortable, his feet shuffling against the gravel and his eyes shifting all around. “I’ve been. . . thinking.”  
   
“Right, yeah,” Dean says breathlessly. “Thinking’s good. Or uh, maybe not? I don’t know –”  
   
“I’ve been here some time, actually.” Cas cuts off Dean’s rambling. “But I wanted to speak to you, alone.”  
   
Unbidden, Dean’s face splits into a cheeky grin.  
   
Cas scowls. “About that.”  
   
“Sorry.” Dean laughs. “Can’t really turn it off.”  
   
“No, I don’t think you can,” Cas says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been to your future.”  
   
Dean’s heart leaps. “Yeah? The bunker?”  
   
“Yes,” Cas says. “Your younger self is there. With your brother and y– the other me.”  
   
“And they’re okay?” Dean asks quickly.  
   
Cas gives him a short nod. “They’re fine.”  
   
“Good.” Dean lets out a brief sigh of relief, then turns his attention fully back to Cas. “So, you saw it, then. Everything. You know what I’m tryin’ to get back to.”  
   
Cas nods once more, but he starts to look uncomfortable again.  
   
“And then you came back here, to talk to me,” Dean says, slowly and cautiously. “You didn’t take off back to Heaven and ignore me.”  
   
“It would appear so,” Cas says, swallowing.  
   
Dean offers a smile. “That’s good.”  
   
At that, Cas finally looks him dead in the eye. “If you know me as well as you claim, then you can’t expect me to accept this. The future that you have created. . .”  
   
“It’s a good one, Cas,” Dean says. “You saw it, you know it is. You’re happy. You’re happy as a human, and you’re happy with me.”  
   
“But what does my happiness mean to anything?” Cas says. “What does that matter? It is not Heaven’s will.”  
   
“Heaven’s will. . .” Dean paces a few steps away, bringing one hand across his mouth. As he turns, his eyes find a spot far across the yard, near the garage. Ten years ago – or, almost nine months from now – Cas stood there and made him swear an oath of allegiance. “Cas, you’re gonna figure out the hard way that Heaven’s will isn’t what you think it is.”  
   
“Lies,” Cas says. Dean turns around to find him stubbornly shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be listening to this.”  
   
Dean takes a step closer to him, keeping his voice calm and firm. “Hey, listen. I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I know it won’t happen, not here and not now. So I just need you to trust me instead.”  
   
“Trust –”  
   
“Yeah, Cas. Look at me, hear me.” Dean licks his lips. “You’re gonna learn the truth, you’re gonna walk this path to where it leads. And you’re gonna lose faith and screw up and get your heart broken. And that’s what’s supposed to happen.”  
   
Cas narrows his eyes.    
   
“Just a few days ago, you told me I have no faith,” Dean pushes, and Cas raises his eyebrows. “But now I do. I do because you taught me. I have faith – not in God, but in you.”  
   
“I. . .” Cas stares at him now, seemingly lost for words.  
   
Dean nods gently and takes a step closer to him. “Now it’s your turn. I know you, I know it’s hard. But please, have faith in me.”  
   
For a long, long moment, Cas looks him in the eyes. Dean lets him, holds his gaze, tries to pour every last bit of certainty into it.  
   
Finally, Cas nods. “Alright,” he says, then reaches out a hand to Dean’s shoulder and the world disappears.

 

 

“Ow,” Dean mutters, rubbing at his cheek a little. That’s the third time he’s completely missed his mouth with his forkful of hash browns.  
   
Ever since that kiss, Cas has become a pretty much unignorable distraction. Dean already kinda overcooked the eggs, because Cas had leaned over the stove and said “that smells good, Dean,” and apparently that’s enough to make him forget about an open flame.  
   
Now they’re sitting at the kitchen table, and Dean keeps accidentally stabbing himself in the face while occasionally sharing subtle smiles and not-so-subtle eye contact with his future husband.  
   
Jeez, he could really get used to this.  
   
In fact, Dean’s working up to saying so, when suddenly there’s a rather loud voice coming from the library.  
   
“Oh yes, here we go!”  
   
That sounded like –  
   
Dean looks to Cas, but Cas is already out of his seat and flying out the side door.  
   
Oddly, Dean’s heart sinks to his knees.  
   
But then he’s up too, running after Cas and up through the war room. He stops dead at the foot of the stairs at the sight of Old Cas, awkwardly standing next to the bookshelves.  
   
He only catches the briefest glimpse of. . . himself, because instantly Cas has him in his arms.  
   
“Damn, sight for sore eyes,” Other Dean mumbles into Cas’ shoulder.  
   
Cas murmurs back something Dean can’t hear, but then his ears go fuzzy anyway.  
   
Dean’s lived a strange life, but watching himself making out with Cas is enough to bring his brain to a grinding halt.  
   
He’s distantly aware of the pair of them breaking apart and looking around at him, and it’s only then Dean realizes he’s been making sounds – like, seriously embarrassing strangled noises that he instantly wishes he could pull back inside his throat and swallow.  
   
“Uh,” Other Dean says, and yeah, that pretty much checks out.  
   
Completely flustered, Dean looks over at Old Cas. He’s been silent this whole time, but he’s staring at the other Dean and Cas with his eyes kind of bulging out of his head. A moment later he looks at Dean, and his face flares bright red.  
   
There’s four whole seconds of agonizingly uncomfortable silence, but mercifully Sam picks that time to come running into the room. “Hey, did I hear – Dean!”  
   
“Heya, Sammy,” Other Dean says, stepping away from Cas just far enough for Sam to pull him into a hug too. “Ahh, there’s this fuckin’ Rapunzel hair!” Other Dean adds, grabbing onto the ends of Sam’s giant mane. “I can’t believe it, but I’ve missed it.”  
   
“Wow,” Sam says, but smiles as he pulls away.  
   
Dean watches the three of them interact, smile, laugh together. These are people he knows – or is, even – but suddenly they feel like strangers. Somehow, he feels more out of place at this moment than he has since arriving.  
   
Again, his eye is drawn back to Old Cas, who’s watching them as well. Dean can’t be sure, but there’s a look on his face that’s close to longing. It makes his heart ache.  
   
“Hey man, how you doing?”  
   
Blinking, Dean looks over and watches Other Dean finally separate himself from the others. Dean looks down just in time to notice that he and Cas had been holding hands. The resulting stab of jealousy is simultaneously baffling and heart-wrenching.  
   
“Some life you got here,” Dean starts, swallowing roughly as he steps up the stairs into the library. He gives his older self a once over, then frowns, irritated. “What the hell did you do to me?” he adds, pointing at Other Dean’s pudgy stomach.  
   
Other Dean follows his gaze down, then looks up again. “Dude, one word: cronuts.”  
   
Dean stares. “Wait, would that be –”  
   
“Mmhmm. Trust me, man, the future is awesome.”  
   
Chuckling, Dean looks around the library. “Yeah, I guess so.”  
   
Other Dean smiles. “Yeah.” He turns around to look at Cas.  
   
And Cas is staring at the pair of them, head tilted and eyes dancing with interest.  
   
“What’s –” Dean starts, but Other Dean interrupts him.  
   
“Oh I know that look. Cas, you kinky son of a bitch, get your mind out of the gutter.”  
   
Dean’s brain crashes to a halt again, but Cas just shrugs, before inclining his head to Old Cas. “Don’t tell me you’re not thinking the exact same thing.”  
   
“Well yeah, duh, but I’m me.”  
  
“Oh c’mon, guys, gross,” Sam adds, squeezing his eyes shut.  
   
“Alright,” Dean says. “This is one crazy train I think I’m ready to get off.” It’s true, his head is definitely spinning, but really, it’s just getting too hard to watch this. His heart sinks lower with every passing minute; he just wants it over, this perfect, happy future ripped away like a bandaid.  
   
Other Dean seems to remember himself, and the smile drops from his face. “Right, sorry.” He looks over to Old Cas expectantly.  
   
“I’ll take him back,” he says, and it’s only then Dean realizes it’s the first time he’s spoken since arriving.  
   
“Yeah, good. Thanks,” Other Dean says. “And I mean – thank you, Cas. For –”  
   
“We should go,” Old Cas says, dropping his gaze.  
   
Other Dean pauses, then nods. “Okay. Alright, take it easy,” he says, turning back around to Dean and clapping his arm.  
   
“Really? That’s what you’re goin’ with?”  
   
After chewing on his lip for a few seconds, Other Dean nods and grabs his arm, pulling him a little ways from the others. “Alright, fair enough. Look at me a sec.”  
   
Dean does, right into his eyes – his own eyes.  
   
Other Dean nods. “All that crap in your head right now – it’s in mine too. Still. Plus I got ten more years worth of crap.”  
   
“This a pep talk?”  
   
“Best one you’ll ever get,” Other Dean says. “It’s not gonna go away, not completely. At least, it hasn’t yet.”  
   
“Great,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.  
   
But Other Dean shakes his head. “But it won’t ever win, you hear? You won’t let it. And you’ve got all this waiting for you, so, hold onto that.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean says. “In ten years.”  
   
Other Dean winces. “I never said it’d be easy.”  
   
“Well, that’s our life, ain’t it.” Dean almost smiles.  
   
“Damn straight.”  
   
With one more slap on the arm, Other Dean backs away. Sam comes in next, wrapping his big Sasquatch arms around him. “See ya around, I guess,” he says.  
   
“I’ll see you in about five minutes, genius,” Dean says.  
   
Sam laughs. “Yeah, true. Just uh. . .” he trails off, suddenly looking anxious. “We’ve got a tough year coming up. So –”  
   
“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean says. “I know it’ll work out.”  
   
Sam relaxes a bit and steps back. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
   
Finally, Cas moves in close too. “You’ll be alright,” he says, before Dean can even open his mouth.  
   
“People keep sayin’ that, makes me think I won’t.” Dean shuffles his feet.  
   
“But you will,” Cas says, smiling softly.  
   
Dean shakes his head. There’s a stupid fucking lump in his throat. “How long?” he whispers. “Tell me how long I gotta wait for this. You.”  
   
Still smiling, Cas leans in close and kisses him, soft and simple, but it’s a bolt of lightning all over again and for a few seconds all the worry melts away.  
   
“No time at all,” Cas whispers back.  
   
“Hey!” Other Dean says from behind Cas. “I’m right here.”  
   
“That was only fair,” Cas says, then fucking winks at Dean and walks away.  
   
And that hurts like a motherfucker.  
   
Heart all the way in his shoes now, Dean looks at Old Cas. Again, he’s got that look on his face, like somehow he’s feeling the same way. Maybe he is.  
   
It’s gone in the next moment though – Old Cas squares his shoulders and walks over to stand right next to Dean.  
   
It’s all happening way too fast and so damn slow.  
   
“Hey listen, we left in kind of a hurry – not complaining,” Other Dean adds quickly, giving Old Cas a nervous smile. “But I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. If you could –”  
   
“Yeah, no problem,” Dean says. “And uh, I’ll make sure Bobby knows,” he adds, giving Other Dean a solemn nod.  
   
He instantly looks at Cas for confirmation, then nods back. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
   
“Right,” Dean says, looking at the three of them, standing together like a damn Christmas card. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.”  
   
“You gotta keep all this under your hat,” Sam says, nodding to the bunker. “I know it’ll be hard, but, everything depends on things going the way they did before.”  
   
Other Dean looks pointedly at Old Cas, too. “Same goes for you, y’know.”  
   
Old Cas just looks at him evenly, then Cas speaks. “Castiel knows what has to happen.”  
   
Before Dean can figure out what the hell that’s supposed to mean, Old Cas has clapped a hand down onto his shoulder.  
   
His future, his happy ending, vanishes from before his eyes, and is replaced by a chilly, moonlit junkyard.  
  
The two of them stand there in silence, unmoving, for nearly a minute.  
   
“Fuck,” Dean says.  
   
“I think I agree,” Old Cas says.  
   
Dean looks at him in surprise. “Really?”  
   
Old Cas doesn’t respond, he just stares up at Bobby’s house, pitch-black but for the tiny bulb of the porch light.  
   
It’s freezing out, especially compared to the warmth and light of the bunker, but Dean’s really not ready to go inside yet. Instead, he wanders a few paces away to where Baby is parked and leans against her passenger side door.  
   
“I’m gonna have a lot to tell them in the morning,” Dean says, nodding up to the house.  
   
Again, Old Cas doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even move.  
   
Dean takes the opportunity to stare at him a little. The differences between him and the other Cas, the ones that screamed out at Dean when he first arrived in the bunker, they’ve kind of faded away. Sure, this Cas is wearing different clothes and his movements are a bit stiffer, but he still has the same eyes, the same curve to his lips. He still holds himself like he’s somehow too much for his body to hold.  
   
The longer he looks, the more Dean realizes that he’s not really Old Cas now. He’s just Cas, as much as the other one was.  
   
Maybe more so, Dean thinks grimly. This is his version, after all. The one he’s going to be with from here on out.  
   
“Listen, I dunno what made you change your mind, but – thanks,” Dean says, although it feels hollow. This is what had to happen.  
   
“You did,” Cas says.  
   
Dean’s lips quirk into a small half-smile. “Which me?”  
   
“Both of you.” Cas finally turns to him. He looks like he’s deciding something, and after a moment he starts walking over slowly, his hands buried in the pockets of his trenchcoat. “And I realized that the consequences of meddling with time were too great to risk. Even when the end result was. . .”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean nods, as Cas comes to a stop a few feet away. “It was. . . a lot.”  
   
“That would be an understatement.”  
   
Dean’s suddenly nervous, awkward; he’s quite literally been dropped back to reality, and the last few days have already started to slip away.  
   
The bunker, his weirdly incredible life, Cas – it’s like the best damn dream he’s ever had and it’s all fading away too fast.  
   
It sinks in now, rude and abrupt. He’s got a looming apocalypse and demons in his head – and not the kind he can fight off with rock salt. Not to mention no idea what he’s supposed to do about this guy in front of him that he’s already pretty much in love with.  
   
“What now?” he asks, without actually planning to.  
   
There’s that look again, like Cas is trying to talk himself into something. “We. . . return to how things were meant to be,” he says, eyes dropping to the dirt.  
   
“Really? Just like that?” Dean asks. He can’t help the pleading note to his voice.  
   
Still not looking at him, Cas shakes his head. “We don’t have a choice.”  
   
“And it’s that easy for you?” Dean says, his desperation clear as day now. “You’re just gonna switch it off for ten years?”  
   
Finally, Cas looks at him again – fucking studies him.  
   
Dean doesn’t know what he sees, but whatever it is, it’s enough to prompt Cas to reach out with both hands, pull Dean in by his shirt, and kiss him.  
   
For a moment, it completely shorts out his brain. It seems that the other Cas was right – it’s always like this, an electric current running right through his soul.  
   
It is a little different this time, though. This Cas is less sure of himself, the kiss a bit artless and fumbling. Graceless, Dean realizes, and that has him chuckling deliriously to himself as he kisses back just as clumsily.  
   
Cas breaks the kiss almost as abruptly as he’d started it. “I’m sorry,” he whisper-pants, pulling away. “I – I needed to, before. . . I needed to know –”  
   
Dean shuts him up instantly, yanking him right back in. Cas makes a small sound of surprise, but Dean doesn’t relent. He’s already addicted to this feeling, the constant buzz that warms him all the way through.  
   
“Fuck,” Dean whispers between kisses. There’s something else different about this too; as nice as it was to pretend, even at the time Dean knew what he shared with the Cas of the future wasn’t really his. Those looks were borrowed, the kisses were stolen. Somehow, these ones feel earned.  
   
Cas’ technique is improving, and Dean’s hands start moving unconsciously, roving around Cas’ waist beneath the coat and suit jacket. Feeling bold, he pulls Cas in and steps backward himself, until he slams into Baby.  
   
It takes Cas a moment to react, but when he does it’s adorably enthusiastic. He makes another little moan of delight, then leans in with his whole body, pinning Dean to the car.  
   
Dean’s brain short-circuits again. He’d forgotten what this feels like; the weight and pressure of a man’s body against his.  
   
It’s therefore absolutely no surprise at all that he instantly goes rock-hard in his jeans.  
   
What is a surprise, however, is that as Cas keeps kissing him, deep and so damn hot, Dean starts to feel Cas’ cock harden against his own.  
   
It seems to surprise Cas, too. He pulls away from Dean, a puzzled expression on his face, then looks down between his legs.  
   
Dean’s heart is going a mile a minute. They’re clearly on a precipice here. “I’m guessing that’s never happened before,” he says, panting.  
   
Cas looks back up at him, wide-eyed. “No.”  
   
Fuck, he looks really damn cute. Dean’s hands had evidently made it into Cas’ hair in the last few minutes, because it’s all sticking out at weird angles.  
   
Forcing himself to focus, Dean swallows around his dry throat. “Hey, this is. . . I mean, this is all new. We don’t have to. . .” He trails off, and his body screams in protest. “We got time.”  
   
A strange shadow flickers in Cas’ eyes, and then he’s back in again, kissing Dean harder and more fervently than before. It punches a moan out of Dean’s chest that turns into a full-on gasp as he feels a tentative hand press against his cock.  
   
“Sonofa – c’mon,” Dean says, reaching down behind him and fumbling with the car’s door handle. “Get in there,” he says roughly.  
   
Cas doesn’t hesitate, although his movements are a little unsure as he struggles into the back seat.  
   
“Lie down. On your back,” Dean says. Cas complies, and Dean only needs one look at him, legs sprawled and tie loose, before he’s clambering in after him and thumbing open the zip of his jeans.  
   
Dean doesn’t know what he was saying before – there’s no time at all. To keep out the cold, he pulls the door shut behind himself and then stretches out on top of Cas. Their bodies align as Dean stares down into overblown pupils ringed with the purest blue he’s ever seen.  
   
They flutter closed as Dean angles his hips and drags them across Cas’.  
   
Everything turns to frenzy after that. Cas brings one cool hand to Dean’s sweaty neck and pulls their lips together again – and again, and again. They move quickly, artless again, fumbling and frantic until a rhythm develops in the motion of their hips. It builds, sure and strong, in no time at all, and Dean is nearly out of his goddamn head with the feel of it.  
   
Finally, Cas reaches down and pushes Dean’s pants away, squeezing Dean’s bare cock with a grip just the right side of too much. Dean swears and pants and cries out as Cas pumps his wrist just a few times and that’s all she wrote – Dean comes harder than he has in years, shaking and painting ropes of come onto Cas’ still-clothed stomach.  
   
“Cas, fuck,” Dean says, trying to bring the world back into focus. When he does manage to open his eyes, Cas is looking up at him, breathing hard and fucking enthralled, and Dean has no other option but to lean down and kiss him with everything he has.  
   
Their hips make contact again and Cas groans desperately. Dean leans up just enough to watch Cas’ face as he angles his thigh just right. He grinds it against Cas’ cock, over and over, and watches as he breaks apart. His eyes slam closed, his mouth drops open in a silent gasp, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Bobby’s porch light shatter.  
   
A quick, delirious chuckle punches itself out of Dean’s chest, and he drops down, taking the weight off his shaking arms and burying his face in Cas’ neck.  
   
After a moment, Cas places light hands on Dean’s back, holding him gently.  
   
The backseat definitely isn’t big enough for two grown men to really fit, but Dean’s somehow more comfortable than he’s ever been back here.  
   
He’s never had a guy in Baby like this. There was always the fear in the back of his head that John would know, be able to smell it or something, but really it was about the memories.  
   
Sex with guys was for motel rooms and nameless truck stop bathrooms – places he knew he wouldn’t be again. He never wanted to look in the rearview mirror and remember a piece of himself he was trying to pretend didn’t exist.  
   
But Dean wants this memory, wants it etched into his mind. Pulling away, he repositions his hips against the seat as he sits up, looks down at a thoroughly debauched Cas, and grins.  
   
Cas smiles back, and that’s weird and wonderful.  
   
“Oops,” Dean says, catching sight of the incredibly foggy windows. “We Titanic’d it in here.”  
   
“We what?” Cas asks, tilting his head in confusion.  
   
“Titanic. The movie,” Dean says.  
   
Cas just stares at him uncomprehendingly.  
   
Chuckling again, Dean shakes his head. “Never mind.”  
   
“Alright.” Cas shifts as well, slowly pulling himself up to a sitting position. He suddenly looks nervous.  
   
“You okay?” Dean asks, concerned. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe Cas is regretting this.  
   
Cas swallows and doesn’t meet his eye. “I’m not sure. This. . .”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean says, his throat gone dry. “This’ll probably mess things up, huh? I mean, timeline-wise.”  
   
There’s a long moment of silence, before Cas says, “No. It won’t.”  
   
Dean’s heart is thumping again. There’s something in his tone, something final. “What d’you mean?”  
   
“This. . . this never happened,” Cas says.  
   
Instantly, worry turns to anger. “The hell it didn’t.”  
   
“No, I mean –” Cas shakes his head. “Everything. The switch, your time travel. It never happened now. This day,” he nods out the window, “I’ve taken you back to the night you were pulled forward in time.”  
   
Dean stares, processing. “So, Bobby, Sam –”  
   
“They won’t remember.” Cas shakes his head again, his eyes on the car’s floor. “It never happened.”  
   
“Well then, they’re gonna have a hard time understanding why suddenly me and you are all –” Dean cuts himself off, because Cas has finally looked him in the eye again. “No.”  
   
Cas looks miserable, and Dean’s world is shattering apart. “I have to,” he says. “This can’t continue, it isn’t supposed to happen yet. And it could change things.”  
   
“Who cares,” Dean cries, desperate. “I can’t go back to before this – fuck, Cas, I need this! And even if you and me can’t do this again, not for now anyway, I need to know it’s all heading somewhere good. I need that future, I need to remember it. You son of a bitch, can’t take that from me.”  
   
“But I must.” Devastation is written all over Cas’ face. “Or we could lose it entirely.”  
   
There are tears welling up in Dean’s eyes. “And what about you, huh?” He says, trying to keep his voice hard. “You gonna wave your magic angel wand and make yourself forget too?”  
   
“No,” Cas says, and it looks like that one little word is causing him physical pain. “I wish I could forget too, but I can’t.”  
   
“Well how is that fucking fair,” Dean spits, and a tear falls. “So what, you got your fucking booty call and now you’re kicking me to the curb. You get to remember this and I –”  
   
“You really think that’s better?” Cas shoots back. “Knowing this, knowing what’s to come, and how you make me feel – the fact that I feel at all! And I must hide that, keep all that in, every time I look at you –”  
   
“But –” Dean sniffs, shaking his head. To try and ground himself, he reaches out and twists his fingers in Cas’ coat. “If you remember, how do we know you won’t be changing things anyway?”  
   
Cas shakes his head too. “I won’t know. I can’t. Every choice I make, every thing I say or do – I’ll have no way of knowing whether it’s bringing me closer or further from you. Believe me, Dean, that’s no blessing.”  
   
He’s right, Dean knows it, but it still feels like his insides have been scooped out. “Please, Cas,” he says, even though he knows there’s nothing he can say.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers.  
   
He reaches out his hand and rests it lightly on Dean’s cheek, and warmth sparks at the contact.  
   
Just as it had before, in the bunker’s library. This scene is some twisted mirror, some bizarro-world ironic fucking bullshit but despite that, from deep inside, Dean understands something.  
   
“It’s still gonna be you,” he whispers. “No matter what changes, I’m gonna love you.”  
   
Cas nods, his own eyes wet now too. “Close your eyes.”  
   
Dean knows what’s coming next, knows how this scene plays out, but still he obeys, feeling Cas’ final, heartbreaking kiss an instant later.  
   
The tears are streaming down now; he feels Cas’ lips working against his, soft and tender, and then the slightest pressure to his forehead before –  
   
   
   
Sunlight is driving painfully into Dean’s squinting eyes. He’d apparently forgotten to pull Bobby’s curtains closed before passing out last night.  
   
“You gonna sleep all day?”  
   
Dean blinks blearily until Sam comes into focus, sitting in front of the couch and pulling on his socks. “That’d be nice.”  
   
“Well, maybe when you’re dead. Again,” Sam says, standing.  
   
“Good one,” Dean mutters, swinging his legs off the side of the couch. He feels kind of strange, like he’s lighter.  
   
“You okay?”  
   
Distracted, Dean angles his head up to find Sam frowning at him.  
   
Dean nods vaguely. “Yeah, just. . . dream, I think.”  
   
“Bad one?” Sam asks, a bit wary.  
   
But Dean shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so, actually.”  
   
“Oh, well, good,” Sam says, then starts off for the kitchen. “Get your ass moving. Bobby’s bringing in eggs, then we’re hitting the books on these Seals.”  
   
“Coming,” Dean says, still frowning to himself in confusion.  
   
There’s something different inside him, and it’s kinda weird, like electricity in his veins. Oddly though, Dean thinks he likes it. It’s warm, like a talisman glowing in his chest.  
   
If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say it feels strangely like hope.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, y'all! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> If ya wanna, hop on over to [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com) and say hi.


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